


For the Lost will never leave us

by maedre13



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Emperor Iedolas makes some severe misassumptions regarding Regis’ reaction when he learns the truth, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Prince Noctis of Niflheim, Regis is not as good in self-control as we assumed, Regis lives, can’t sign a peace treaty if you’re dead, i cannot believe this is not a tag yet, kid Noctis gets kidnapped and raised as the Heir to the throne of Niflheim, no prophecy no Ardyn, rest in pieces Iedolas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:20:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 33,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24612169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maedre13/pseuds/maedre13
Summary: The peace treaty was never meant to fail.As far as Prince Noctis is concerned there is neither a warning nor a provocation when a weapon materializes in the hand of the King of Lucis, and he lunges to plunge it into his father’s chest.As Emperor Iedolas lies dying, Noctis finds himself alone, surrounded by his worst enemies.
Relationships: Clarus Amicitia & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Clarus Amicitia & Regis Lucis Caelum, Cor Leonis & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Gladiolus Amicitia & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Iedolas Aldercapt & Noctis Lucis Caelum, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Ignis Scientia, Noctis Lucis Caelum & Regis Lucis Caelum, Titus Drautos | Glauca & Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 110
Kudos: 229





	1. Peace treaty signing interrupted by unexpected murder

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!!
> 
> Here's my first daring advance into the FFXV fandom and I offer you this story of Prince Noctis, the poor boy who got kidnapped by the Imperial Emperor and is about to be reclaimed by his people. A lot of family drama is waiting for him. Oh, and there's the war with Niflheim, of course...
> 
> I hope you enjoy reading!

Insomnia is beautiful.

It’s by far too beautiful to be destroyed by the war, Noctis thinks as he follows his father into the Citadel.

He has seen shots and photographs of the city before, even though the access to the Lucian media is heavily restricted to the public of Niflheim. But even the high-quality shots fail to display the grandeur of the white Citadel and the skyscrapers stretching out for the heavens.

Despite his wonder, Noctis makes sure not to stare too obviously, and he keeps a straight face when they are being led deeper into the Citadel, their guide showering them with a flood of pleasantries and trivial information about the Citadel itself. 

The group of troopers that is escorting him and Emperor Iedolas is warily watching out for any kinds of dangers or ambushes. Their cautiousness is fully warranted, considering that as long as the peace treaty is not signed, they are still in enemy territory. His father seems confident in their advance, however, which helps in calming Noctis’ nerves.

Their guide leads them through seemingly endless passages of white corridors, lined with statues and portraits of dead kings, until finally they arrive in front of a pair of heavy doors. They are being pushed open by the heavily-armed guard in front of them, and Noctis sneaks a first peek of the throne room of Lucis.

It is awe-inspiring, he has to admit that, as he takes in the large hall, the twin pair of stair cases and the massive golden ornaments to both sides of the throne. It is an echo of the power Lucis has wielded, before their war against Niflheim had started taking their kingdom apart.

The king of Lucis is standing at the upper edge of the stairs and slowly starts to walk down while their group is making its way towards the throne. A symbolic gesture, Noctis guesses, of meeting them in the middle.

He uses the king’s focus on his father to scrutinize the man inconspicuously. The King of Lucis is a tall man, and the strength and pride in his shoulders defies the streaks of grey in his hair. Noctis has heard tales of the man’s marvelous magical powers – if the stories are to be believed, this man carries the burden of keeping up the Wall all by himself. Noctis isn’t quite sure if he believes this. A king capable of such feats would surely be able to push back against the Empire of Niflheim in their military advances, wouldn’t he? 

With a start, he realizes that he has missed the beginning of the conversation between his father and the King of Lucis and he hastily takes a step forward to make up for his failing.

“And I am most pleased to introduce you to my son, Noctis,” his father is saying, a practiced smile in his voice, as he turns around to look at Noctis. When he makes a sharp gesture towards him, Noctis steps forward in a dignified manner, his chin raised.

King Regis’ eyes wander from his father to Noctis, for the first time shifting his attention from the Emperor to his escort. His eyes widen, just as his entire body freezes. It feels like time is crawling to a stop, just for a second, as the King of Lucis and the Heir to the Imperial throne lock gazes. Emotions are flashing over the man’s face, faster than Noctis can name them. Surprise. Disbelief. Wonder. 

“Yes,” he can hear his father saying. “I do think that he comes after his father.”

That strikes him as odd, considering how he has troubles finding his own face in his father’s wrinkles. His father had never spoken much about his mother – only when Noctis’ demands had grown too loud – and he had silently assumed that his dark hair had been gifted to him by his mother.

“You…” King Regis begins to say, and his shattered voice is Noctis’ first hint that something is wrong.

“Your Highness, that is…“ The man behind the king is shifting forward.

Then everything happens too fast. Regis’ face distorts, overwhelming rage taking over whatever he had been feeling before. His eyes seem to be glowing, burning with fury – like the legendary magic the kings of Lucis are known to wield.

Something materializes in the king’s clenching fist in a shower of blue crystals, and Noctis jerks back. He cannot escape the blade quickly enough. The blade is not aimed at him.

As he stands rooted to the spot, the king of Lucis lunges forward and, with a clarity that is gifted only to a man’s most precious or worst memories, Noctis watches as he plunges it into his father’s chest.

There is a scream in his chest. Or maybe there is a scream in his head, a silent scream that makes the rest of the world go quiet.

His father dies quickly. Noctis knows this, knows that there is no rescue, no last minute saving, as he sees his father’s knees give out beneath him, as he sees the blood spread across his adorned robe.

Suddenly, the scream is loud in his ears, and it is like Noctis is watching, a silent spectator of a terrible scene, as he watches his own body move. His hands find the daggers he has hidden beneath his vest, close around the hilts and yank them out.

He will die here, he realizes with a terrible certainty as his gaze follows his father to the ground, to the blood that slowly pools beneath him. But he will take the king of Lucis with him.

He surges forward, his blades tightly held in front of him, and swipes for the king. Like from far away, he sees the man jerk back, his face pale and his eyes snapping to Noctis. Too late.

Right before the blade connects with the kings’ – the murderer’s – skin, something - someone – gets in his way, pushing the king behind him.

It’s the same man that had spoken before, his hair cropped and greyed. The king’s shield, a distant part of his mind informs him. There is a blade in his hands, too, a long sword that manages to catch Noctis’ daggers and sends them to the side. The force of the blow knocks one of his blades out of his hands, clattering to the ground, but Noctis clings to the other.

He lunges again, aware that his moment of surprise is gone, but unable to stop. Around him, he knows that his father’s men are fighting, dying, but the sound of the weapons clashing doesn’t reach his ears. There are too few of them, and too many of the kings’ guards – the glaives, or Crownsguard, or whatever they are called.

The king’s shield parries his attack, his face stern, but Noctis doesn’t slow down. He slashes, ducks, and tries to slide past the man. Just one hit. One hit will be enough.

He can see King Regis right behind him, grey eyes staring at him like he is the first human to grace the earth. Noctis doesn’t understand. Noctis doesn’t care. One of his strikes forces the man in front of him back, and he pushes forward, his momentum carrying him past him. The maneuver could have earned him a blade into the back but he doesn’t care. If he can take down the king, he will die gladly.

Again he raises his blade. For a single heartbeat, he finds time to wonder why the king is not moving a finger to stop him. Before his dagger can slice into the man’s chest, throat, skin, a large hand is grasping his shoulder, and then Noctis goes flying.

He crashes into the cold floor, the impact jarring enough that he nearly lets go off his blade. He doesn’t. Ignoring all pain, Noctis staggers to his feet, intent on setting forward again.

In front of him, people are moving, forming an impassable barrier in front of the king. Crownsguard. It is then that Noctis realizes that he is standing in the middle of the corpses of his father’s men. He is the last one.

His eyes wander, desperate to find at least one of them alive. None of them moves, except for the blood that flows from their bodies. Taken out so easily. What had they walked into?

“Prince Noctis,” a voice says, and Noctis’ head snaps back around to the king. He is unreachable now, too many bodies that would throw themselves in between him and the dagger in Noctis’ fist. He can’t reach him. Next to the king, just a few steps further, Noctis can see his father lying crumpled on the ground.

One of the men takes a hesitant step towards him.

A sob chokes its way out of his chest. Don’t die, he thinks. Don’t die and you can return to finish it. His survival instincts are struggling against his wish to throw himself against the Crownsguard, possibilities be damned. His survival instincts win.

He takes a step back, stumbling, and then turns on the spot. He raises the dagger and, in a movement that he has nearly forgotten, throws it towards the door of the throne room.

He hasn’t done this in a long time. When his father had found out, a long time ago, that he had been warping down the floors of the palace – young enough to qualify as a toddler in the man’s eyes – he had yelled at him. Telling him off for something that had started as a game, that had been more instinct than something he understood. Noctis hadn’t questioned it, and had suppressed the urge, that instinctive move forward- through space-, twisting and jumping and-

He slams back into reality, his hand closing around the dagger, now merely steps away from the doors. People are yelling behind him, he can hear them running but he doesn’t turn. Instead, Noctis knocks the two guards at the door to the ground, and wrenches the door open.

An arm closes around his chest, just as a strong hand grasps the wrist of his right hand. He staggers into the man’s chest, his breath being pushed from his lungs. Instinctively, he knocks his head back, but his attacker avoids the hit with a grim face. Twisting, Noctis can see who is holding him and his heart sinks.

Cor the Immortal, the king’s marshal, is holding him close to his chest, his arm squeezing but still far enough away from his throat. It’s enough to hold him immobile and Noctis panics.

He struggles, trying madly to wriggle out of the man’s hold. In front of him, he can see movement, the king of Lucis pushing forward through his group of guards.

“Let go off me,” Noctis snarls, as unlikely as it is for the man to follow his demand.

“Calm yourself,” the marshal says, and for some reason, this, more than anything else, slams the situation home for Noctis. His vision fogs, as he shakes his head, and screams, and struggles, fighting to free himself from the unforgiving grip.

He flips the dagger in his hand – maybe, if he can twist his arm for a moment – and hears the marshal cursing. A second later, he is maneuvered around, and his hand meets the dark wood of the door. Pain shoots through his hand, and a moment later, his wrist is twisted, and he watches helplessly as his fingers open. The sound of the dagger hitting the ground is loud in his ears, nearly as loud as his own panting.

Someone picks up the blade and tugs it away, and Noctis becomes aware of the fact that the king has followed him.

He is standing in front of him, watching his struggle, his features twisted with – what? Pain? Triumph?

“I’ll kill you,” Noctis threatens, the words burning out of him. “Let go off me or I’ll… and I’ll-“

“Your Majesty.” The king’s shield is back, eyeing Noctis warily.

“It’s him,” King Regis whispers. “It’s really him, Clarus.”

The man is nodding, his eyes not leaving Noctis’.

“Regis, I know this is a lot to take in. But you need to… just… Take a look around for a moment.”

The king frowns, his hand that has reached out towards Noctis – why? To kill him? – falling down. He looks around the throne room, at the guards, at the fallen bodies of his father’s men, at the Emperor, collapsed in a puddle of his own blood.

He is still pale when he turns back to Noctis.

“Well,” he says breathlessly, “I suppose this has ruined the peace talks quite thoroughly.”

The king’s shield gives the Crownsguard a silent order, and two of the dark-clothed men move towards Noctis. He struggles as much as he can – without any success- as they pull him away from Cor The Immortal and move to stand behind him, hands clasped tightly around his shoulders and elbows. 

“Noctis,” the king says, leaning forward to gaze into Noctis’ face. Noctis glares back, twitching in the Crownsguards’ hold as his entire body strains to throw himself against the man, to close his hands around his throat and squeeze.

“Noctis, do you know who I am?” The question is odd, and even odder is the way the king keeps looking at him, as if he is looking past Noctis’ shields and directly into his soul. Noctis doesn’t let himself fool by the lack of open hostility. The man had pretended to be a perfectly pleasant host right until the moment where he had drawn his dagger.

“What kind of stupid question is that?” he bites out when he’s calmed down enough to form words. He’s way past caring about formality.

The kings’ men shift.

“Maybe it would be more precise to ask – do you know who I am to you?” Regis repeats, his voice growing a bit sharper.

Noctis scowls as he turns the question around in his mind. What is the man getting at?

“You are a liar - and a murderer,” he spits, trying not to choke on the bile rising in his throat. He wants to call the man more vile names – it’s the only thing left to him now, and to hell with the consequences – but is distracted when the marshal steps forward to lay a steadying hand on Regis’ shoulder.

“I don’t think that he knows anything,” the man says, quietly enough that Noctis understands that he wasn’t supposed to hear. “And I think that Clarus is right. You need to take a step back for a moment and think about how you want to deal with this situation.”

For the first time, the king’s attention on Noctis wavers. “You’re right,” he says quietly. “We should-“

“Speak about this alone,” the other man – Clarus – interrupts.

The king’s chin clenches, then he gestures at the two men who are still holding Noctis tightly. “Accompany… our guest to a safe location,” he orders. “Ensure a maximum security level. Nobody is allowed to see him until I arrive.”

The man to Noctis’ left is nodding, and shifts his hold on Noctis imperceptibly.

“If you want to kill me, just do it now!” Noctis levels another glare at the king.

“My dear Noctis,” the man replies, infuriatingly calm. “I can ensure you that I have no intention of seeing you come to harm.”

Giddy with fury, Noctis tries to find words to respond to this. It is undoubtedly the worst lie he has ever heard before. Before he manages, he is whisked around, not too gently, and pushed towards the open door of the throne room.

Whatever the king’s intention for keeping him alive is – alive, for now – it can only be bad.

They wait until they can no longer see or hear the boy as he is marched out of the room. It is Cor who drags them to the next empty room, since Regis still looks as shell-shocked as on the day when Noctis disappeared.

He closes the door behind them after giving out a short order to the Crownsguard.

“I hope you are aware that you have just caused a diplomatic catastrophe, Regis,” Clarus is saying when he turns back.

Regis, away from prying eyes, hunches over slightly. “Believe me when I say that I am very aware of that.”

“You killed the Emperor,” Cor says, and there is the overwhelming urge to laugh bubbling in his chest. “Just… went ahead and stabbed him. Regis, I thought you were taking these peace talks _seriously_.”

Regis scowls at him until he spots the small smile on Cor’s lips. “Stop being a smartass, Cor. I… I don’t know what came over me. I was… _so angry_.” His scowl deepens. “I’d do it again.”

Clarus sighs as he steps closer and rests a hand on the king’s shoulder. “For what it is worth, I cannot say that I wouldn’t have done the same. Seeing Noctis there…”

“I had almost given up hope,” Regis whispers. “It’s been so long… But I saw his face and there was no doubt in my mind that it was him.”

“He does look just like you when you were his age,” Cor agrees. He hesitated. “But as overjoyed as you must be to see him again… you should consider that he’s not the little boy you lost, Regis.”

The king snorts. “Obviously. He barely reached my knees back then.”

Cor does not feel like joking any longer. “He has been raised by Niflheim,” he says. “By the Emperor himself, as it looks. I doubt that he has any feelings of sympathy for Lucis, especially after what just happened.”

Clarus nodded slowly. “If it was the Emperor who abducted him back then, then I don’t think that he would have revealed his parentage. Noctis may very well think that he was his real father.”

Regis shrugs. “It will not be difficult to prove the truth to him. And I did not say that it is going to be easy. We are going to have to be patient with him.”

“Regis,” Clarus says seriously. “He was about to stab you to death.”

“So we are off to a rocky start. All parent children relationships can be difficult.”

Pinching himself between the eyes, Clarus scowls at him. “So that’s your plan? Tell him the truth and hope for the best? Damnit, Regis, he is the official Heir to the Empire of Niflheim.”

“Which I suppose will move the moment they hear about their Emperor’s death,” Cor adds. “For now we have the information contained but how long until they come looking for him?”

Regis crosses his arms before his chest. “No. You’re right. We cannot hide the Emperor’s death for long. But we can decide on the way we present it.”

Cor narrows his eyes. “Pretending that it was an accident? An assassination attempt from a third party?”

“Those are possibilities,” Regis admits.

“What about their prince?” Clarus asks. “As soon as they notice that something is wrong they will try to extract the royal family from the Citadel.”

“And you don’t think that we will be able to hold them off?”

Clarus rubs his chin. “The official escort which is waiting in front of the city gates? For sure. It is the back-up which is worrying me. It’s not far behind. And we don’t know whether the Emperor made any contingency plans.”

“For now, we should stall them,” Cor proposes. “Giving us time to prepare.”

“We could send out the message that the Emperor has fallen ill.” Regis looks like he is resisting the urge to pace. “Ideally, we could get a statement from Noctis confirming it. It would call off all attempts to reach the Emperor.”

“Not a bad plan, Regis,” Clarus admits. “But do you really think Noctis will support the lie?”

The king’s face darkens. “We can only hope to convince him. Either way, it is no solution to the overall situation. In time, we will have to reveal that the Emperor has died or the decision how to will be taken out of our hands.”

“We will need Noctis as the Emperor’s Heir on our side,” Cor confirms after a small pause. “Otherwise, we will have a war at our doorstep faster than we can blink.”

Clarus’ fingers are drumming out a fast rhythm against the chair to his left. “Would they dare to attack a city where their crown prince is potentially held captive?”

Regis gasps. “You are not suggesting to… to threaten to harm Noctis as retaliation to a future strike?”

“Calm down, Reggie.” Clarus raises his hands. “I have no more intentions to hurt your son than you do. But if the Empire is not aware of his true parentage… we can use that against them.” 

“Either way, an open threat would be too dangerous,” Cor interrupts. “But… it wouldn’t hurt to make them aware of the situation.”

“We would have to provide proof that Noctis is alive and well,” Regis says.

“Naturally. That should not be a problem. We need as much proof to support our story as we can get.”

“Our story of how we did not kill the Emperor?”

Clarus glares at Regis. “Precisely.”

They return to the throne room a short time later, their plans set, or at least as set as they can be with countless unknown variables complicating matters.

Regis nods towards a man of the Crownsguard and lets him guide him to the room they are keeping Noctis in. Cor and Clarus follow silently. Regis needs them now, possibly more than ever, and they are determined not to leave his side.

The room turns out to be one of the safe rooms close to the throne room, built in case of emergencies and attacks on the royal family. Three guards are standing in front of it, watching the king’s arrival with alert eyes.

When Regis enters, his gaze snaps immediately from Noctis’ three guards to the boy himself, sitting stiffly in a chair in the middle of the room but shooting up to his feet the moment he notices his visitors.

Regis’ mood takes a rapid drop when he notices the reason why Noctis is holding his hands awkwardly in front of him.

“What is the meaning of this?” he snaps out. “Why is he shackled?”

“Your Majesty,” one of the guard answers with a deep bow. Only now Regis notices that the man has blood running down his nose. “His Highness tried to escape. We took precautions to avoid future attempts.”

“Is that so?” Regis replies, his mind racing. Something like this was to be expected, he thinks.

Noctis doesn’t seem injured. He is holding himself up stiffly, his chin raised and his eyes blazing defiantly. Expecting retribution?

“He will not be shackled,” Regis decides, gesturing at Noctis. “Take them off.” One of the guards steps forward and follows his command. Noctis’ glare doesn’t soften, instead he seems even more wary. 

Clarus and Cor come to stand behind him. “Leave us,” he says with a glance at the guards. They hesitate for a moment before they file out of the room, unwilling to leave him with a man they have identified as an enemy of the kingdom.

Noctis’ attention is on the guards before it snaps back to him, his expression blank and controlled. “Whatever you are intending to do to me,” he states haughtily, “you should know that I will not comply with your demands, whatever they shall be. You have been a fool to make an enemy of the Empire.”

At his words, Regis’ heart sinks. It has been clear from the start that this will not be easy but doesn’t make hearing it confirmed easier.

“I will have you know that we have no intentions of hurting you,” Regis states. Convincing Noctis of this will be the first step on the long way of making him trust him.

Noctis snorts. From the way his expression closes off directly afterwards, Regis can tell that it was an unintentional reaction. “Of course. Just as you had no intention of hurting my father until the moment you drew a blade to end his life.”

“He’s not…” Regis stops. He had wanted to wait for a while longer until he revealed the truth to Noctis – but how, when the boy will only show hostility towards him until he knows the truth? What if it doesn’t change afterwards, a small part of Regis’ mind is whispering. He suppresses that part ruthlessly and charges forward. His plans were already disrupted from the beginning.

“I am aware of what my actions may seem like to you. Treacherously. Deceitful. But you should be aware that I had not planned any of what has occurred today.”

Noctis scoffs. “Yeah, right. You may be a backstabbing bastard but you are terrible at lying, Your Majesty.”

Regis suppresses the urge to flinch. Of course Noctis will not believe a word of what he says.

“It is true,” Cor interjects. “You may not believe it but His Majesty had every intention of signing the peace treaty with the Emperor. We have longed for peace for a long time while the Empire has conquered colony after colony.”

“Then what changed your mind?” Noctis spits. He looks like he is calculating the chances of how far he will get if he lunges an attack on the Emperor. Regis is half certain that if he didn’t have Clarus and Cor in the room with him – all three of them armed with access to his armiger – Noctis would have already tried to attack him.

“What do you remember of when you were very young?” Regis tries, instead of abruptly dropping the truth on him.

Noctis’ expression circles through anger and wariness and settles on confusion. “What does that have to do with it?”

“Do you have any memories that are… odd? Which seem misplaced? People, locations?”

“What are you-?”

“Do you remember your mother, Prince Noctis? Did the Emperor talk about her with you? Did he tell you stories?”

An angry frown blooms on Noctis’ face. “I don’t see how that is any of your business.”

Regis breathes out, steeling himself for Noctis’ reaction. “Your father was not telling you the truth, Noctis. And neither was he your real father.”

Noctis blinks.

“That is ridiculous,” he says. “Who would be my real father?”

Regis straightens his shoulders. “I am.”

Regis does not expect Noctis to attack him. Not really. But the next thing he knows is that Clarus is pulling him back while Cor is wrestling Noctis to the floor.

“ _You’re… a fucking liar_ ,” he can hear Noctis yelling over the sound of blood rushing in his ears.

Cor is pressing Noctis’ face into the ground and Noctis’ struggling ceases by and by as he realizes that he’s stuck. Finally he grows still and Cor hesitantly allows him to get back up to his knees, his grip still tight in case of Noctis trying to attack him again.

“I am,” Regis repeats, a little unsure in the face of Noctis’ open anger. He thinks of the day that Noctis disappeared, all these painful long years ago, and his determination strengthens.

“I do not know whether you have heard about how the crown prince of Lucis went missing sixteen years ago. Noctis… that is, you were four years old at the time. We… have never found the culprits. Well,” and here Regis chuckles without real amusement, “never until today, I suppose.”

Noctis glares at him. “And you just… I don’t know, took a look at me today and decided that it was me? Tell that to someone more gullible! I-”

“You are the spitting image of me in my younger years,” Regis interrupts him. “And…” he adds quietly, “you look a lot like your mother as well.”

He can see Noctis silently forming the words ‘my mother’, even as he refuses to acknowledge what Regis has said. When the boy has finally gathered his wits once more, his voice is more incredulous than angry. “So I have dark hair and eyes. Lots of people do. That doesn’t mean a thing.”

Regis is prepared for this argument. “You have the magic of the kings of Lucis,” he says quietly. “No one could have warped without an inner connection to the crystal.”

“I didn’t… I didn’t…” Noctis stutters. Regis can’t help but wonder how familiar he is with his own magic. Had he used it instinctively – or had the Emperor tried to teach him? Had he hidden it, afraid of what people would think of him?

“You did,” Clarus says unexpectedly from beside Regis. “The entire room saw it. One moment you were right in front of us, the next,” he mimicks the throw of a knife, “you were next to the door in a blaze of crystal magic.”

“Maybe your family is not the only one with that ability,” Noctis snaps and immediately flinches, as if realizing the ridiculousness of his outburst.

“My dear Noctis,” Regis says, fighting a smile, “I think we are both aware that that is not the case. Besides…” And here he stretches out with his senses, stretches out to feel the nervous energy bubbling up from the boy in front of him, full of restlessness, fear, agony and silent fury. It feels strong – but unfocused. Noctis is clearly lacking control, even as he seems to have an instinctive grasp on it. “I can feel it. I can sense the magic within you. We are both intrinsically connected to the crystal – and each other.”

“More lies,” Noctis murmurs but his head sags down. Regis allows him a moment to gather his thoughts.

It can’t be true. There is no way that the king is telling the truth, Noctis thinks. It doesn’t matter that his words make sense, doesn’t matter that it doesn’t _feel_ like the man is lying. A part of Noctis hates him for that – for all that the king has done, he still has the face of an honest man. Of a kind man.

But that is just another part of his lies and schemes. The man is playing the innocent when he is the one with blood on his hands. He wants Noctis to lower his defenses, in order to… to-

“Even if it _was_ true, it’s not like you could prove it,” he argues half-heartedly.

Regis raises his brows. “Why would I need to prove it? We both know it to be true.”

Noctis thinks furiously. No matter what the crystal magic says, he is the Emperor’s son. He is _most certainly_ not the son of his father’s murderer. “Well, if you convinced the Empire that I am not Emperor Iedolas’ son… that would leave the Empire without a leader. Once it becomes known that he is d-“ His throat closes off and leaves him breathless. Pain is throbbing his throat, in his lungs, in his heart.

He forces himself to keep speaking. _Don’t show weakness in front of the enemy._ “Once it becomes known what has happened, the royal houses and the military would look for the next leader. And if it’s not me…” He shrugs. “They might tear themselves apart, if you’re lucky. Might keep them too busy to bother you.”

“My, my,” Clarus pipes up, “Cor, have you been taking notes? We have a tactician at our hands.”

Noctis grimaces. He doesn’t mean to give them _ideas_.

“Regardless of how the Empire will react,” Regis says, “it will be for the best if we keep the truth of your parentage to ourselves, for now.”

“The truth,” Noctis spits. “Yeah, right.” He hopes that his voice conveys his doubts clearly.

“For now, we will let them know that the Emperor has fallen ill,” the man adds, his eyes not leaving Noctis. “We are not prepared for an open attack on our city gates.”

“What?” Noctis gasps as the words register. “You’re gonna… you’re not even going to tell them?” He thinks about the media, thinks about how everyone has been looking forward to the peace signing. “And what do you want to tell them?” he spits. “That the Emperor… is down with a stomach ache? That he will sign the treaty in a few days once he feels better? How is that going to change anything? You can’t cover this up!”

Regis hesitates. “If… you gave a statement… surely they would-“

“Like hell I am!” Noctis hadn’t meant to raise his voice but suddenly the fury is back, boiling in his blood. “Is this why you’re keeping me alive? Hoping for my compliance?” He starts to struggle against Cor’s grip again and manages to stagger back up. The man’s unyielding grasp keeps him from taking a further step forward, from gripping the king’s formal attire and _shaking_ him –

“That is _not_ why you are here,” Regis states firmly. His calmness is infuriating. Noctis nearly wishes that the man was making threats, rather than stare at him with, with – like that.

“Well, good,” Noctis snarls, leaning back. If he could he would have crossed his arms. “Because I am not helping you.”

The king sighs and rubs his eyes tiredly.

“I am aware this is a lot to take in,” he begins.

Noctis doesn’t think he can keep breathing. “You _KILLED my father. You invited us here,_ ” he is struggling again, and sweating, and swearing, “And _stabbed him_ and now you’re… you’re expecting me to, to just _accept this_ , and _to help you._ As if I’d _ever help you, get your fucking hands off me, you-_ “

He claws at Cor’s arm, at anything he can grasp. Breathing is getting really hard as he chokes on his rage. “ _Get off me._ ”

“Your Majesty, I’m not sure we should continue this discussion right now,” the king’s shield is saying. Noctis barely notices it over the roaring in his ears. “Give him a chance to think and to calm down.”

“You fucking piece of…”

Cor gives him a shove before Noctis can voice what exactly he feels for them, and he catches a glance of the face of the king before he pushes him past him. In the moments before he can regain control over his expression, the man looks devastated.

Good.

Noctis feels nothing but pure satisfaction as he is guided into the hands of the waiting guard, along with an undercurrent of dread. Surely now that he has refused to help them, their true intentions will show. And indeed, Cor The Immortal pulls one of the guards to the side and gives him a sharp order.

Then, Noctis is marched down the corridor, two guards grasping his upper arms tightly, four others boxing him in on all sides. He considers trying to make another break for it. But when he had tried last, there had only been three of them and he hadn’t even managed to defeat them. What would his father say? Furthermore, he is still unarmed. He has no doubt that if he is making trouble, the king’s men will not hesitate to use their long knifes against him.

Instead, he is trying to remember the way they are leading him through the Citadel. It’s easy to get lost in the abundance of corridors but if he can manage to create a mental map of the place…

They end up in front of an inconspicuous door after a long row of empty corridors. Two of his guards disappear into the room behind and don’t emerge for ten minutes. When they do, they are both carrying boxes. Noctis catches a glance on a mirror and some cutlery before they have moved past him.

Noctis is shoved into the room and he stumbles before he regains his balance and whirls around to face the door.

“You’re just going to keep me in here until I change my mind?” he yells at no one in particular. The guards meet his gaze evenly and close the door.

“Fuck you!” Noctis snarls at the door. It doesn’t open. For a few moments he keeps his gaze on it, waiting for anything to happen, then he allows his shoulders to slump infinitesimally. He’s alone. Imprisoned. With no allies in sight.

Suddenly there are tears burning in his eyes and he swipes over them angrily, feeling faint on his legs. _Focus_ , he commands himself. _Your father would expect nothing less of you. Focus and see what you can use for your escape_. He stubbornly ignores the voice in his head saying – _but that’s not true. He wasn’t your father, was he_?

Instead, he turns to inspect the room. It immediately becomes clear that it is not a normal guest room – but not a prison cell either. He should feel relieved about that. Half of him was convinced that they’d throw him into the cells to rot until he gave in to their demands to lie for them. He is the only one who can confirm that the Emperor has not been murdered, he thinks, and shudders. There is a detachment in his mind that feels foreign to him, a distance that allows him to think even as he wants nothing else but to collapse to the ground and cry.

No. He does not have time for that.

Noctis examines the bed, the table and the chairs around it. There is a commode with nothing inside of it – most likely the king’s men have taken out all equipment that could have been used as a weapon. There is no window which is not a surprise but which causes Noctis’ mood to drop further.

Attached to the main room there is a small bathroom. Marks on the wall show where the mirror has been taken off. On the shelf there is a toothbrush and a comb. For some reason, this sign of normalcy is what breaks his countenance. He is crying before he is aware of it and sinks to the ground on the cold tiles of the bathroom, hands digging into his eyes. He is shaking, and sobbing, and he knows that he can’t stop.

In his mind, he can see his father’s dead eyes staring at him, can see the blood spreading across his clothes, red and tainted. He can see Regis’ face as he tells him the terrible truth, the terrible lies, and he hates the man as much as he hates himself for his failure at keeping his father safe.

It takes a long time for him to stop crying, and when he does, it’s more due to exhaustion than relief.

He crawls towards the bed and collapses on top of it, not even bothering to pull the covers over him before he is dragged into a restless sleep.

_“The news say that Tenebrae is burning.”_

_Noctis has sneaked into his father’s office. It’s not a feat that is easily accomplished and he is aware that it raises his father’s ire as often as it gives way to amusement._

_Emperor Iedolas raises his gaze from the documents on the table. His constant frown is not to be found, instead he seems almost pleased._

_“Do they now?”_

_Noctis nods hesitantly. He fidgets with his hands, unable to hold his father’s sharp gaze for long. “They say that our troops have been victorious in breaking through the main resistance. They say it’s a great victory.”_

_Iedolas smiles mirthlessly._

_“So you are here to congratulate me on our victory?”_

_Noctis shakes his head, then hastily nods when he sees his father’s face darken. “I’m just… I wonder why you attacked… now.” He doesn’t demand to know why he attacked at all. It is what he wants to know – why attack the country? They had done nothing to provoke them – but he knows that the question would displease his father._

_His father twirls a delicate pen between his fingers._

_“They needed to be punished.”_

_“What?” Noctis swallows. “Why did they need to be punished?”_

_His father is smiling again. It should be nice to see him smile but instead it makes his stomach roil nauseously._

_“We had our sights on Tenebrae for a few years now. The timing was excellent.” It’s like his father hasn’t even heard him._

_An idea flashes through Noctis’ mind. “Is it because of what the Oracle said? The speech on the radio, about how Niflheim should take care not to underestimate the dangers in continuing their aggressive move forward?”_

_A burst of fury flashes over his father’s face. “The insolence,” he hisses. “Spoken as if she had any power to back it up. Niflheim’s rise to greatness cannot be stopped. We are meant to rule over them, small fries that they are.” He smiles at Noctis. “One day you will rule over all of them. An Empire, stretching from the sea to what was once known as Lucis.”_

_“But they have the wall,” Noctis feels forced to point out. “We can’t get through that. They have the crystal.”_

_This time, his father’s gaze is nothing but calculating as he watches Noctis fidget. “Believe me when I say that I have plans regarding the crystal… and how to use it.”_

_Noctis swallows. “I thought only the royal family could use it.”_

_“Indeed.”_

_He doesn’t ask any further questions, knowing that he won’t glean more answers than the ones he has gotten so far._

_Subtly, he shifts his weight from one leg to the other. “So…Tenebrae… what will happen to it now?”_

_His father looks surprised. “Well, isn’t it obvious? It has become a part of the Empire the moment we stepped into their temples. The House Fleuret will swear their loyalty to us and give up bowing to that fool of a Lucian king. With Queen Sylva gone, their resistance is broken.”_

_Noctis forces his face to remain expressionless. He is the Heir to the Empire. Feeling pity for their enemy – now their subjects – would be interpreted as weakness. “That is a great victory indeed,” he says, the words tasting like ash on his tongue._

_His father bows forward and swipes a hand through his hair in a rare show of affection. “It is. You should be proud of it.”_

_As Noctis blinks, he fights his urge to leave the room this instant. Maybe he should lay down later, claiming to have a headache. But there is one last thing he needs to address._

_“If they are our loyal subjects now, shouldn’t we send aid to fight against the fires?” he asks. “The fighting seems to have caused a fire to spread through their holy forests. It would be a great tragedy for their culture if they lost it.”_

_“Do you want to know a secret, Noctis?” The Emperor bows forward while he pushes a finger softly against his mouth. “But it’ll have to stay between us.”_

_Noctis nods, biting his lips._

_There’s a smile twitching at the corner of his father’s mouth. “The fire was not caused by accident. I ordered them to lay that fire.”_

_Noctis’ eyes widen. “But…”_

_“Resistance must be broken, Noctis. And it’s most easily broken when you take from them what’s most precious to them.”_


	2. Conspiracy theories, imprisonment and baby photos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis meets Ignis and Gladio and makes a bad (no, terrible) decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! 
> 
> Here is as promised the second chapter!! And a big thank you for everyone who commented last chapter!!  
> Now let us offer a moment of silence for Noctis because his life is not about to get easier.

There are new clothes lying beside the door.

The thought that someone had come in while he was asleep makes Noctis shiver. Foolish, to let his guard down like that. He doesn’t touch the clothes, and keeps his own on instead. He refuses to wear the colours of the enemy. It doesn’t matter that they are crumpled after a night of tossing and turning in his bed. Those are his father’s colours and he is wearing them with pride.

He does shower, for a few minutes, listening intently for the sound of the door opening. It doesn’t. He steps back out and, despite knowing better, starts to pace. Are they just going to leave him in here all day? How long until the mighty king of Lucis finds time for him again?

In his mind, he sees himself going mad in these walls, stuck without end in sight for days and days. It’s unreasonable, he thinks, hopes, because if he wants to use him to keep the Imperial army from attacking, he’ll have to let him out at some point.

After half of an hour of pacing, Noctis collapses on one of the chairs. Lying back down on the bed seems too much like showing a vulnerability. 

Noctis isn’t sure how much time passes when there is a knocking at the door. It can’t have been long. His sense of time is scrambled due to the lack of a window and the lack of sunlight offering him any hints. But he is quite certain that it is still morning, maybe even early morning considering how poorly he slept.

At the sound of the knocking, Noctis jumps in his chair. The door opens and he gets to his feet quickly, determined to be on eye-level with whoever is arriving.

He doesn’t recognize the man that enters his room. He is tall, wears glasses and he can’t be much older than Noctis. His brown hair is styled back and he is wearing formal clothing that indicates that he is working in the Citadel, maybe even at the king’s court.

“Your Highness,” he greets Noctis. “It is the greatest honour to see you again.”

Noctis scowls at him, refusing to be charmed. “Do I know you?” It seems like the diplomatic lessons his father had forced him to go through had been in vain. In his defense, none of them had prepared him for a scenario quite like this.

The man’s smile falters a little bit and Noctis takes a vindictive pleasure in that.

“Forgive me,” he says with a bow of his head. “I should have introduced myself. My name is Ignis Scientia.”

 _Should that mean something to me?_ Noctis wants to ask but bites his tongue the last second. He shouldn’t antagonize these people without a good reason. If he acts compliantly, his chances of a successful escape will increase.

“I’m afraid I am not familiar,” he answers instead.

“Allow me to come in,” the man – Ignis – says.

 _It’s not like I could stop you_ , Noctis thinks bitterly.

“Welcome in my new residence,” he bites out, doing a little sweep of his hand to invite him in. Ignis reaches behind him through the door and pushes a movable table inside which is loaded with breakfast. The door is pulled close by the guards. With little hesitation, Ignis starts to transfer the plates to the bigger table in the middle of the room.

Noctis discreetly watches for a knife but it appears as if the kitchens have only granted him access to a spoon. He refuses to be impressed by the rich assortment of fried egg, sausages, buttered bread and fruits. _He’ll have to try harder to manipulate me_ , Noctis thinks viciously.

“The king has sent me to offer you company while you eat,” Ignis explains. “Please settle down, Your Highness.”

After shooting Scientia a wary glance – no, he does not look like he is about to pull out a weapon – Noctis slowly sits down. As soon as the smell of the food hits him, he realizes that he is ravenous. Scientia sits down on the other site of the table.

Noctis stares at him, unwilling to pick up the spoon. “So who are you? A member of the court? Of the glaives?” Scientia doesn’t look like a warrior. Yes, he looks lean and fit but his attire suggests another path of career. But the way his eyes tracked Noctis when he first arrived makes him wary to underestimate the man. He doubts that they would have allowed him to enter his room if he did not know how to defend himself.

Scientia hesitates before answering. “I am working for the king’s advisor board. Mainly, I serve as a direct link of communication between the glaives, the Crownsguard and the king but I also handle a fair share of diplomatic matters.”

“Diplomatic matters such as bringing breakfast to the imprisoned Heir to the Empire of Niflheim?” Noctis drawls. Idly, he wonders why the king picked this guy to be the next Lucian he meets. Does he think that the lack of an age difference will make Noctis feel more comfortable? Comfortable enough to give in to the demands the man will doubtlessly make?

“You’re not… you’re not a prisoner, Your Highness,” Ignis says, his face scrunching up for a moment.

“Could have fooled me,” Noctis bites out. He raises his hands to point at non-existent marks of the cuffs they had placed on him yesterday. “The only thing that is missing are the shackles.”

Ignis looks at him calmly. “I can assure you that all measures that have been taken serve no purpose but to keep you safe and sound, Highness.”

This startles a laugh out of Noctis. “I see now why they let you deal with diplomatic affairs. You’re a great liar.” A voice at the back of his head is telling him to calm down, to take a step back and to regain control of his mind and mouth.

“I understand that your situation is difficult,” Scientia begins after a pause. “But you can be assured that the king harbours no ill intentions towards you.”

Noctis pushes the plate in front of him away from him. “I do not believe a word you are saying.”

The movement draws the man’s attention. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. “You’re not eating. Is there something wrong with the food?”

Noctis glares at him. “I don’t know, is there?”

Ignis readjusts his glasses on his nose as he scrutinizes Noctis’ face, as intent as if he could read his mind. “You don’t think it is poisoned, do you?”

Noctis hasn’t thought that, not really. It is more that he refuses to accept anything that came from the king- whether it is the food or the company. “Well, maybe it is. Maybe the king changed his mind and decided that he’d rather get rid of me, too.”

Ignis’ mouth falls open before he visibly gets a hold of himself. “You are his son,” he says quietly. “His own flesh and blood. Why would he do that?”

Noctis flinches. Scientia knows. Which can only mean that he has the king’s full trust. This only further proves to him that he cannot trust the guy, no matter how friendly he acts. The king had chosen the man he thought most capable of convincing Noctis to trust him – but Noctis would not be foolish enough to do so.

“My loyalty is to the Empire that has waged war against Lucis for years. No blood relationship can possibly make him forget about that.”

To his surprise, this startles a laugh out of Scientia. His face looks a lot younger when he is laughing, Noctis notices, distracted. “You clearly don’t know how much you mean to him,” he says, when he has calmed down.

Noctis tries not to react to the statement but there’s a strange stab to his heart. “If he hopes for anything but my hatred, his hope is in vain,” he offers stiffly. “He has _killed_ my real father, the man who has raised and taught me.” Despite his best efforts, heat is sliding back into his words.

Ignis freezes in alarm. Noctis’ eyes widen as he realizes that Ignis might not have known. No, that is impossible. If the man knows about Noctis’ true identity then he has also been informed about the Emperor’s death.

After a long and uncomfortable silence, Scientia nods and attempts a smile. “No matter your current relationship, you should know that the king does not wish to poison you. Please eat, Your Highness.”

Noctis doesn’t move.

Scientia sighs and picks up the small spoon on Noctis’ plate. He swipes it across the plate, trying to gather a bit of everything on it before swallowing it down.

“There,” he says. “Not poisoned. Please, you are not doing anyone a service if you are starving yourself, Highness.”

Noctis stares at him. The man is different from what he expected. Probably another reason why the king chose him. Maybe he is trying to prove that not all Lucians are bad people.

He shrugs, and in a movement that conveys his disinterest – and the fact that he is not doing this for Ignis – picks up the spoon. The food is good, and as soon as Noctis tastes it, he realizes how much he is starving and he digs in, not caring much for manners.

He is aware of Ignis watching him silently.

When he is done, the man picks up his plate and puts it back on the movable table. Then he turns back to look at Noctis.

“You should give him a chance, you know?” he offers. “He would not have risked an all-out war against Niflheim if he didn’t love you.”

Noctis crosses his arms, refusing to look at Ignis. “Why would I trust what you say? You’re just another one of his men.” 

Ignis’ sharp eyes are wandering over his face. “What can I do to make you trust me?”

Noctis perks up a little bit. He can’t ask for anything outrageous like a walk outside but maybe…

“What is he telling the public?” he demands to know. “Do they know the peace treaty signing failed? Are they aware why?” If Niflheim has found out about the murder, chances are that they will attack the city gates soon.

Ignis frowns. “I am not sure I am allowed to tell you.”

In return, Noctis glares at him. “And you ask why I can’t trust you.”

Ignis rubs a hand over his face, frustration visible for a few seconds. Then he pauses to think. “Fine,” he murmurs. “I suppose that there is no reason why not to tell you.” He moves to pull something from his pocket and Noctis stiffens before realizing that Ignis has pulled out his phone. He types on it for a few seconds, then holds it out for Noctis to take.

Noctis looks down on a photo that must have been taken shortly after he and his father had arrived in the throne room. **Emperor Iedolas fallen ill – peace treaty signing delayed** , the headline is screaming at him.

He scrolls through the article, then moogles for more news articles. They all voice the same thing: The Emperor has fallen ill shortly after his arrival in Lucis and is being treated by the Citadel’s doctors. No information has been released on the changed date of the treaty signing but the press is expecting the crown to offer more information soon. In the meantime, the Emperor and his son are being housed in the guest rooms of the Citadel.

They must have noticed that my father’s guard hasn’t given any updates recently, Noctis thinks furiously. _Someone_ must have noticed that something is wrong. He sighs, and reaches up to rub his brewing headaches away. Even if they believe what the news tell them, the signing can’t be delayed forever.

Noctis will simply have to stay alive until then. 

“I hear that you have convinced Ignis to show the newspapers to you?”

Noctis freezes as he watches the King of Lucis walk through his door. After Ignis had left, he hadn’t expected any company soon. It seemed as if he had been wrong. King Regis takes a look around Noctis’ room and winces slightly.

“I am sorry for the bare accommodations,” he offers. “I am sure you understand our reasons.”

His words have given Noctis enough time to rally himself. “You are afraid that I will try to escape the Citadel,” he says pointedly.

Regis’ gaze snaps towards him. “Are you?”

Noctis shrugs. “Take me out on a walk in the gardens and I suppose you’ll find out.”

The king considers his words for a few seconds before he slowly shakes his head. “Actually I was intending to show a few other things to you. We shall see if we can make time enough for a tour of the gardens afterwards.”

Noctis clenches his teeth. How dare the man pretend that everything was alright? Offering a tour of the Citadel? Ridiculous. He is not a _guest_. But acting hostile might mean that he isn’t getting out of his room.

He nods. “Sounds fantastic,” he bites out. Judging by the way Clarus, the king’s shield, is tracking his every move, he doesn’t sound very convincing.

If Regis notices that his tone is off, he doesn’t remark on it. Instead, he smiles at Noctis – oh, how Noctis wants to claw that smile right off his face – and motions for him to step forward. He obeys, walking through the door and onto the corridor. A second later, Regis is by his side, the guards following close-by.

Noctis unobtrusively eyes the king from the side. He doesn’t seem to be armed. But Noctis is not fooled that easily. He saw the man draw a dagger from thin air just the day before. It’s a shame because it means he can’t try to steal his weapon. He is walking close enough, after all. Then he wonders whether he should ask about that ability of his – but that would mean mentioning his father’s murder and he isn’t sure he’ll be able to keep his control if he does.

So instead Noctis accompanies the man quietly and pretends that he doesn’t notice the sharp attention every guard – and Clarus especially – is paying to him. Wherever Regis is leading him, the place seems important. The ornaments in the Citadel are getting more detailed and there are old paintings of previous rulers of Lucis hanging on the wall.

Finally, Regis enters a room through its heavy wooden door and Noctis follows after him. He quickly realizes that he is standing in the king’s office, an old adorned desk taking up the majority of the room. The walls are lined with folders and books.

Noctis inconspicuously considers the distance to the window and gives up all hope of jumping through it when he realizes how high up the room is. He isn’t sure whether he can manage a warp on command, and he certainly can’t manage two of them.

Regis guides him towards the desk with a wave and Noctis reluctantly settles on one of the chairs behind it. The king shuffles through a handful of documents lying on his desk and pulls forth a thick envelope.

“Ah, there it is,” he sighs, and pushes it towards Noctis. “Come on, take a look.”

Slowly, Noctis lifts the envelope and opens it. His own face, many many years younger, is looking back at him, staring up at him, smiling, from a photograph. He blinks in surprise and pulls the entire bunch of photos out of it.

In the background, he can see Regis’ face, split wide open with a broad smile. He looks so happy, Noctis thinks, stunned. Even further back, he can see – is that The Immortal? – and a younger version of the king’s shield.

“These are…”

“Pictures of you. I kept all of them.”

His mind full of wonder, Noctis pages through the photographs. They look old – everyone looks so much younger! – but even so, it’s impossible not to recognize the king and his allies. And Noctis himself… Noctis suddenly understands how it was possible for the king to recognize him with one glance alone. It doesn’t seem like he has changed much at all, except for growing tall and losing some of the softness in his face.

“I don’t…” his words fail him. “I don’t remember… any of this.”

Regis looks pained when he catches a glimpse of him beside him, but he schools his expression into a smile quickly. “Give it some time. Maybe something will come back to you.”

Noctis nods unsteadily. He takes another photograph into his hand. His younger self is sitting on a chocobo, holding onto the yellow feathers like he is afraid of falling down any moment.

“You weren’t capable of saying chocobo back then,” Regis says fondly. “So you settled on saying ‘chobo’. It caused quite some confusion until people figured it out. You loved those birds.”

“Regis had to talk you down for half an hour until you agreed not to take one with you as your future pet,” Clarus confirms from behind them. Noctis has nearly forgotten about his presence.

“Really?” Noctis asks distractedly. He has spotted a young woman on one of the photos. She has her arms linked around Regis and is smiling up to him. She is beautiful, her dark hair framing her in a way that makes her eyes sparkle.

At last, Regis notices what has caught his attention. Noctis is surprised at the rush of sadness that suddenly flashes across his face, a sadness that feels so personal, so deeply felt that he feels bad about witnessing it. 

“Aulea,” Regis says quietly. “My wife. And your mother.”

Noctis has to swallow around a lump in his throat before he can ask “What happened to her?”

Clarus is the one that answers, when it becomes obvious that Regis will not. “She passed away not long after we took that photograph.”

Noctis casts his eyes down and picks the photo up again. He looks so _young_ on that one. They all do. How had Regis felt, after he had lost his wife, to lose Noctis as well?

He startles when he feels a hand closing around his shoulder, and he meets his father’s – Regis’ – eyes. There is a suspicious wet gleam to them and Noctis’ stomach clenches.

“I’m sorry,” he says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

Regis’ lips twitch. “She would love to see how you have turned out.”

Noctis looks away. 

He doesn’t protest when they lead him away, and he ignores the way Regis and Clarus keep sneaking glances at him.

They don’t take him to the gardens. Instead, they are leading him through the Citadel and follow the stairs down and down. Men in black clothes start crossing their paths and Noctis realizes with a start that he is looking at the glaives – the king’s private assassins to some, his heavy hitters to others. They are dangerous either way, and he can’t help but eye them whenever one of them gets too close.

“They all share a bond to the king,” Clarus informs him quietly. “It allows them to use his magic – or rather, it grants them access to the crystal’s power.”

Noctis watches the glaives curiously. The crystal. It was one of the main reasons why his father had always been interested in Lucis. It was also one of the main reasons why Insomnia had been spared from any direct attacks of Niflheim. The wall that protected it was insurmountable. He chanced a glance at the king. And all of it – through him.

Maybe that was the reason why the king didn’t bother to carry a weapon around with him. With all that power backing him up, who would even require a weapon to kill?

“So does that mean that I can access the crystal’s power as well?” Noctis asks, too curious to remain quiet.

“Of course,” Regis answers. “Though your connection to the crystal is much stronger than theirs.”

Noctis watches one of the glaives lights a flame in his hand. “I’m not so sure,” he says. “I never did _that_ before.”

To his surprise, his comment makes the king laugh. “I believe that is because you have never been trained. Trust me, none of them would have managed to instinctively warp their way across the throne room.”

Noctis shifts his weight, uncomfortable. The question whether he would teach him dances on his tongue but he refuses to give the king this satisfaction. He is his enemy, he reminds himself. But wouldn’t control over his abilities mean a new sort of weapon for him to use?

While he is still debating this question, they enter a large training area and come to a halt. Noctis watches as a tall, heavily muscled man walks between the glaives, watching and shouting commands. Suddenly his eyes snap up and land on Noctis.

Noctis feels like he has frozen or has been pinned down beneath a predator’s gaze.

“Gladiolus,” he hears Clarus calling.

“This is Gladiolus Amicitia,” Regis introduces the man quietly as he moves towards them. “Clarus’ son and one of the trainers of the kingsglaives. He would have been your shield, if you hadn’t… well…”

Noctis nods slowly. The thought that this guy – Gladiolus? Gladio? – would have been his bodyguard is slightly daunting. The man looks like he eats sabertusks for breakfast.

Gladiolus arrives and sizes up Noctis. “So you are the prince from Niflheim,” he says. “Great to meet you.”

Noctis shakes the hand he is offering, if only because he doesn’t know what else to do. “Prince Noctis,” he introduces himself. “And you are… Gladio.” Not his smoothest reply but he thinks that he can be forgiven for his slight lapse.

“Gladiolus, you should come with us,” Clarus enters the conversation. “We told you that we’d visit with His Highness.”

“Of course,” Gladio responds, scratching his head. “Just didn’t expect you to be so early. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

Feeling slightly amused, Noctis watches him leave, his open confidence a refreshing change after the tenseness of the last hours. “So he’s a glaive as well?” he asks Clarus. The man shakes his head. “No, he always refused to sign up for that. The aptitude is there, of course. But…” He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“Alright,” he murmurs while he watches the glaives keep training, even with their supervisor missing. Their skills are impressive, he has to admit that, and peculiar at that. From time to time, he can see the flicker of blue crystals where the men are facing each other, followed by a warp towards their sparring partner. They seem… at ease with their skill, confident in their rights to use it. Noctis doesn’t know how to feel about that.

He wonders whether he could hold his own in a fight against one of them – a very likely scenario if he attempts to leave the Citadel. Probably. His fighting skills aren’t rusty, a result of constant vigilance and the dangers that being the Heir to an Empire brings along with it. Nonetheless, a fight with the glaives promises to be a close call, and Noctis decides not to let it come down to a test until he has made his plans.

Barely a few minutes later, Gladio is on his way back to them, having changed into a more formal wear. Noctis blinks in surprise when he sees who is accompanying him. Ignis Scientia is walking alongside the man, his sharp eyes already pinned on Noctis.

“You have already met Ignis,” Regis begins quietly. “He was going to be your advisor… though whether you would accept him as such now would be your decision.”

Noctis turns to the king, startled. He remembers Ignis saying that he was working for the advisor board but he hadn’t realized… Suddenly the man’s young age and obvious reactions to his sharp words make more sense to him.

“Your Majesty.” Ignis bows when they have arrived in front of them. “Your Highness.”

Regis acknowledges this with a nod. “Noctis, I’d like to officially introduce your retainers to you. Ignis and Gladio have been trained by the best and are fully prepared to act as the future king’s advisor and shield.”

To Noctis’ astonishment, both Gladio and Ignis sketch out a small bow. He flattens his lips. “Retainers, huh?” he drawls out. “Sounds like a fancy word for guards to me.” He watches the two men closely for a reaction but none of them even flinch.

“They are both fully informed on the situation at hand and on the difficult situation you find yourself in.” Is it his imagination or has Regis’ voice grown a bit sharper, a silent warning in his words? It rekindles the flame of anger that Noctis has been nursing in his heart.

“They will accompany you in the coming days. I hope that before long, you can place your trust in them.” Noctis suppresses a snort and raises his brows haughtily instead.

“So you’re not going to force me to stay in that room until I change my mind about _lying for you_?” he challenges. Frankly, he is not sure how he would react to that. Being stuck in a closed room leaves him without even the slight hope of escape. Then again, biding his time will be his most valuable weapon. He thinks about Ravus suddenly. Surely the Commander of the Imperial Forces would at some point notice that the crown was no longer responding to communication?

Regis draws his brows together and Noctis spots a tiny bit of anger. Good.

“You are not a prisoner, Noctis,” the man states firmly.

“Could have fooled me,” Noctis mumbles. He is uncomfortable reminded of Ignis and Gladio watching him closely.

“Maybe a change in location is required,” Ignis says quietly when a passing glaive gives them a curious look. “This might not be the best place to discuss something like that.”

Regis tilts his head. “A sound suggestion. Very well.”

Before long, the king is leading them towards a different part of the Citadel, Gladio and Ignis sticking closely to Noctis. 

Ignis clears his throat discreetly. “You really don’t remember anything from before?” he asks.

Noctis frowns at him. “No.” _How could I when I was only four years old?_ he wants ask. _You are all strangers to me._

“Well,” and here Ignis chuckles a little sadly, “we hadn’t met that often yet, I suppose. We were both still growing up.”

Noctis glances away, uncomfortable. “So I knew you two?”

Ignis shakes his head. “Only me.” Noctis files this away for further contemplation. A part of him wishes that he remembered Ignis, if only so he could understand the man better. He frowns.

“And when I first appeared in the news from Niflheim you did not recognize me because…?” He trails off, finding it hard to articulate his question.

“Noctis.” It is Regis who answers. “Aldercapt did not even mention you to the news until you were seven years old. It came to all of us as a surprise when he announced that he had a son which he had kept secret until he had grown old enough to face the court.”

“Half of us didn’t even believe that you existed until one travelling dignity confirmed it to us,” Gladio adds with a grunt.

“And we certainly didn’t connect the news with our missing prince,” Ignis admits, “since our search for you had shown no results since over three years.”

“I held a speech on the radio when I was ten years old,” Noctis says, affronted. 

“And you offered your deepest condolences to the people of Tenebrae when the fires raged through their lands,” Regis says quietly. Noctis falls silent. His father had _not_ been happy about that.

“But apart from that,” Gladio argues, “I have never seen you on the news. A couple of photographs from the distance, sure, but nothing up-close.”

“I have been thinking about that.” The frown seems to be edged into the king’s face. “He must have kept you away from the press on purpose.”

Noctis scoffs. “Why? Because he was afraid that you’d recognize me on sight?”

“Yes.”

“And then what? You would have launched an attack on Niflheim? You can barely stand up to the Empire as you are.”

The king stops at that and turns to face Noctis. Noctis keeps his attention on the beautiful blue flowers to his right, unwilling to show his nervous anticipation.

“My son,” the king says softly, bowing forward to lay calloused hands against Noctis’ cheeks. Noctis _hates it_. “I would have conquered Niflheim and the entire rest of the world, if it was to bring you home safely.”

He can’t bear to look into the king’s resolute eyes for long, a fire lit in them that’s unfamiliar enough to Noctis to feel uncomfortable about it. Regis can’t truly believe that this show of… of whatever this is will be enough to make Noctis forget about what he has done.

“If he was so afraid of you finding out, why did he…” Noctis falls silent. He can’t say ‘abduct me’. But what else should he call it? Luckily, the king seems to understand him either way.

“I believe that it was because of the crystal.” His face is shuttered closed but Noctis doesn’t find it hard to guess the man’s feelings. “Niflheim has always been interested in the progress of their magitek technologies. If they could work out how to use the crystal as a form of power source – or to spread its abilities to their army… they’d be unstoppable. And you, Noctis, would be the key to it. You’re linked to the crystal, with a connection stronger than anything they could hope to establish with their research.”

Noctis looks away, his teeth and fists clenched. “That’s not… that’s not true. That’s not why he…” That can’t be the reason. They were implying that his father had only taken him in for his power – for abilities Noctis wasn’t even sure he had.

“I know this is difficult,” Regis says softly, reaching out with his hand hesitantly. Noctis recoils and the king looks like he has slapped him.

“You don’t know anything,” Noctis tells him, incensed.

“I don’t believe that’s all of it,” Ignis declares after a long silence. Noctis turns to look at him. Ignis is not looking back but instead staring at the ground, a frown etched into his face. “When he came here, he must have known we would recognize you. Why do you think he would risk that – risk the treaty signing for that?”

Noctis crosses his arms, dreading Ignis’ next words.

“I can only deduce that he intended us to find out,” the man continues. “And to use your presence to pressure His Majesty into giving in to his demands. With the Imperial might at his beck and call and His Majesty’s son as his future Heir by his side? How could he have possibly resisted Niflheim’s victory march?”

“Except you killed him,” Noctis hisses, a wave of emotions roiling back up inside his chest, clawing at his throat.

“Except I killed him and cannot say that I regret that. Not after he stole my own son from me,” Regis retorts back sharply. Noctis flinches back at the stormy expression on his face and feels the guards shift closer to him, ready to intervene if he tries to make a break for it.

“Noctis,” Gladio says, lying a broad hand on his shoulder. The man is trying to calm him down, Noctis realizes, but he can’t understand what he is saying over the growing static in his mind.

“Don’t touch me,” he snarls and pushes Gladio’s hand off him. He takes a few fast steps forward, unwilling to look at any of the others. He can feel their stares on him, can feel the stares of the guards, maybe they are already contemplating a plan to bring him down –

He whirls around, throwing his arms wide open. “You can’t just… you can’t just expect me to be okay with this!”

He hates how calm Regis is looking. “Nobody is expecting you to do anything, Noctis.”

“That’s my father you are talking about! Stop talking about him like he did… like he didn’t… He cared! He did! He didn’t just…” Noctis stops to gasp for air and suddenly Ignis is by his side, sliding a hand over his back as Noctis doubles over.

“It’s alright,” he says. “Take a deep breath. We don’t need to talk about this now. It’s alright.”

Noctis shakes and struggles against the tears pushing against his eyes – he will not cry. He will not-!

“I want to be alone,” he manages to squeeze out. He can’t look at them any longer. If he has to look at any of them for another minute, he will either try to claw their face off or he will start sobbing. He doesn’t know which one would be worse. No, that’s wrong. He knows exactly which one would be worse. He will not cry in front of his father’s killers. Even if Iedolas had had ulterior motives when he had picked Noctis up, that didn’t mean that he hadn’t l- that he hadn’t considered him his son in every way that counted.

“Whatever you need, my son,” Regis says, and Noctis hates him so much it hurts. It would be much easier to hate him if he had turned out the monster Noctis suspected him to be.

He can’t stay here.

Noctis paces the length of his room but he can’t get rid of the restless energy centered in the middle of his body. A plan is forming in his mind, patchy and risky at best.

“Hey!” He hammers against the door separating him from freedom. “Let me out! I want to see Ignis! I demand to see Ignis Scientia! Call him!”

He is the Heir to the Empire of Niflheim. They can’t just ignore him. King Regis has personal interest in him. They wouldn’t just ignore him, would they?

Only silence is following his outburst and Noctis slumps back onto one of the chairs. He hates this room. He hates this room and he hates this situation, he hates being stuck, he _needs to get out._

For a few minutes nothing but silence is his company and then there’s a knock on his door, throwing Noctis back to his very morning. Ignis walks through the door, an apprehensive look on his face.

“Is everything alright, Your Highness?” he asks and Noctis can’t stay on the chair any longer.

“Take me out,” he demands, jumping up. Ignis flushes. “No, not like _that_ ,” Noctis hastily adds. “I just… I can’t stay in here any longer. I’m going stir-crazy. I need some air. I-“

“I understand,” Ignis interrupts. He hesitates. “As long as the guards accompany us, I don’t think that the king will disapprove.”

“Thank you,” Noctis says, and he does feel grateful.

“Where do you want to go?” Ignis asks.

Noctis falters. “The library?” Ignis raises his brows. “I suppose I have quite a few things to read up on... the family Lucis Caelum,” he defends himself.

“Of course,” Ignis replies without a pause. “It will be good if you familiarize yourself with your family’s history.”

Noctis doesn’t look at him and just nods. He steps out of the room and pretends that he doesn’t mind the guards’ instant snap to attention. Instead, he follows Ignis as the man leads him through the Citadel, on a similar route as the one that had led them to the king’s office. 

He enters to find endless rows of old books and scrolls waiting for him, the dark shelves only giving way to a handful of small reading tables.

“If I remember correctly, the books on the royal family of Lucis will be in the back over there,” Ignis explains as he strolls forward. Noctis follows him dutifully and listens as Ignis explains the sorting system of the library to him. He should have guessed that Ignis was the literary type. Ignis pulls forth several books on the history of the royal line, two on the history of Lucis itself and one on the lore and religious beliefs of its people.

There is a heavy paperweight lying on the table. When Ignis doesn’t look, Noctis drops it into his pocket.

“I suggest that you begin with the records of the royal family,” Ignis suggests, a pleasant smile on his face. Noctis’ stomach clenches. He throws a look towards his guard. The Crownsguard is standing by the door, his gazes politely avoided but he’s sharply aware of their attention on him.

He takes a look at the book in front of him, browsing through a long list of names that should mean something to him. It doesn’t. With his head bowed, he looks through his fringe of hair to the window at the end of the room. It’s not far. And there are no iron rods in front of it. Just a short layer of glass separating him from freedom.

“Ignis,” he says, looking up. If he doesn’t dare this now, he won’t dare at all. “There is something missing from this book.”

Ignis seems surprised, bowing forward to take a look at the page Noctis is pointing to. “What is?” he asks, his eyes scanning the page.

Before he can develop doubts about what he is about to do, Noctis draws the paperweight from his pocket and knocks it across Ignis’ head. The man gasps in pain and slumps over the table.

Noctis doesn’t stop to check the state he is in. He doesn’t stop to look at the guards either who are undoubtedly jumping forward, their weapons drawn.

Instead, he sets off towards the window, the bloodied paperweight in his hand. Behind him he can hear shouting. What if the window is locked? What if he can’t warp on command? What if –

A hand is reaching for him and he ducks away from it and throws the window wide open. Cold fresh air hits his face. Another arm, grasping for him, aiming to pull him back. They are _fast_. Noctis gets a foot up to the windowsill and, with too little time to think, throws himself through the window, hurling the paperweight down in front of him.

Air rushes past him.

He is falling.

He is falling from several levels up and he will die.

The scream is stolen from his lips, the rush of air is all he is hearing.

There is no time to think. There is no time to react.

Noctis reaches out towards the paperweight and, his skin buzzing, _pulls himself towards it_. He emerges in a shower of blue crystals less than a meter above the ground and falls, his reflexes present enough to force him into a roll.

He lies on his back, fighting for breath, pain shouting through all his limbs, and fighting against the urge to laugh. He is alive.

However, yelling from above him knocks him out of his stupor fast. He drags himself up, not even looking back up to the window he fell – jumped – out off, and forces himself into a jog. He is free.

For how long?

Ignis recovers from the blow Noctis deals him fast. One moment his head is lying on the table Noctis had worked on, his mind dazed, the next he is scrambling for his phone with trembling fingers. He doesn’t need to hear the Crownsguard panicked shouts to know that Noctis has gotten away.

He hits the speed dial on his phone and few seconds later Gladio picks up the call.

“Ignis?”

“Noctis,” he manages to gasp out. “He’s on the run, he…” And here he has to pinch his nose because the pain from his skull threatens to overwhelm him, keeping him from thinking clearly –

“He warped out of one of the windows of the royal library.” Ignis forces himself to visualize a mental map of the palace and calculates the possible routes Noctis might choose. “He should be between complex two and three. I suppose that he’ll try to find his way through the gardens of complex 3 to get out of the Citadel. Get there, _fast_.”

“Got it,” he hears Gladio reply curtly. From the background noises he can hear, Ignis concludes that he has already started running.

Ignis tries to get to his feet but is forced to abandon his endeavour when the world starts spinning violently. He groans silently. 

“Ignis, you sound weird. Are you alright?” he can hear Gladio asking, the man barely out of breath from running.

“I am calling the glaives,” Ignis informs him and hangs up without waiting for a response.

He steadies himself on the table and punches the glaives’ frequency into his transmitter. He can’t allow Noctis to get away. He’d never forgive himself.


	3. Run boy run (they’re trying to catch you)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noctis runs away from his family and learns how to use his magic. Niflheim makes its first move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You think it's getting better? You're wrong.  
> Have fun reading!

Noctis is out of breath. He had tried to orientate himself when he dived away from the main path but his knowledge of the Citadel layout is lacking at best. For now he is following two objectives: Stay away from the pathways, unless nobody is using them. Get out while the Citadel gates haven’t been closed yet.

It’s a race against time.

There is no doubt that his guards are calling for backup this very instant. For now, he is hiding behind a corner while he is waiting for a pair of Citadel workers to pass through the door. They are talking among themselves, and laughing, and Noctis burrows his fingernails into the insides of his hands.

Then, they are gone. It’s a clear path from here towards the next pathway, and from there it should only be a short way to the outer section of the Citadel.

He breathes in deeply – still no sight of anyone – and breaks into a run.

The moment he crosses the threshold of the passageway a heavy weight comes barreling into him, knocking the air from his lungs, and his body to the ground.

He curses, trying to get up again but a large arm slings around his neck, pulling him back down. The man is strong, stronger than Noctis, and larger, too. His panic offering him additional strength, Noctis pulls back his elbow to slam it against any soft body part he can reach. The man grunts, and Noctis connects the voice and statue with a person. Gladiolus.

He curses and turns to break free. The guards must have notified the glaives. Before he can get up from the ground, a hand closes around his wrist and pulls him back down. Noctis slams his palm into Gladio’s face and allows his fingers to dig in, pushing him back. 

“Alright, Princess,” he hears Gladio growls, and then a weight flips him over. Suddenly, Gladio is kneeling above him, his legs pressing into Noctis’ side and his weight pressing him down. Noctis flings his hands up, aiming for an attack against the man’s throat – why doesn’t he have a weapon? He has always been better in combat if armed – but Gladio manages to catch his hands right before they connect.

The next second, his hands are captured in a large hand and pressed to the ground. Noctis rears up, struggling - he can’t give up, not when he has come so close - when he feels a blade pressing against the soft flesh of his lower throat.

He freezes.

“I suggest you don’t move,” Gladio whispers into his ear. “And now tell me what you did to Ignis.”

Noctis blinks up at him. “He… he should be fine.” He licks his lips nervously and finally lowers his head onto the ground with a soft sigh. It’s over. He knows that it’s over. The most he can hope for is that Gladio takes mercy on him and ends him quickly rather than handing him over to Regis.

Steps from the side capture his attention and he twists his head slightly to the side, only to watch as the glaives stride out of the pathway and surround them.

Rough hands tear him up and the blade leaves his throat while the sudden change in position makes Noctis’ head go dizzy.

The next minutes pass in a blur as he is moved along the pathways he had avoided before, the Citadel flooded with Crownsguard and glaives alike. He is dragged into the throne room, – and isn’t that a deja vu he had never wanted to experience? – the glaives refusing to leave his side.

Regis is already waiting for him and Noctis sees a thunderstorm waiting for him in his eyes.

“I can’t believe what I have heard,” the king shouts, and Noctis flinches at the openly displayed show of temper. It’s worse than he thought. The king throws his arms into the air as he quickly moves towards him and Noctis instinctively flinches back. The hands on his arms tighten and force him to stay in place, force him to whether the storm, uncaring of whether he’ll survive it.

“I don’t think that you can blame me,” Noctis shouts back, seeking refuge in anger, “if I try to get away from you!”

Regis stops as abruptly as if his ties had been cut. He pauses as he ponders on something. Then he gets closer to Noctis, sounding incredulously, nearly affronted: “You think that I am mad with you because you tried to escape?”

A desperate laugh escapes Noctis. Is the man trying to play dumb? Noctis has seen his mask falling often enough, he will not allow the man to play him for a fool any longer.

“Why else would you be mad?” If he had any energy left, he would have tried to wriggle out of the glaives’ grip. But he is caught, captured, and left at the mercy of his enemies.

“You jumped out of a window!” Regis thunders. “You could have died! What were you thinking?!”

Noctis blinks.

“What?”

“You heard me,” the king of Lucis snarls. “What if you hadn’t managed to warp in time? The glaives take years in order to learn! Even members of the royal family require several days to perform their first warp without any problems! You could have died because in some part of your confused mind you thought that it would be a good idea to just _blindly throw yourself out of a window_!”

Noctis swallows. “You’re not… mad about the escape attempt itself?” The man is trying to trick him, there is no other explanation.

The king visibly forces himself to calm down, running a hand over his face. “Of course I am mad about that,” he says finally. “But I would have been a fool to expect anything else from you.”

That hits Noctis hard, for some reason. He is right, of course – he had planned to escape from the very moment of his capture. What right does the man have to sound _upset_ about it?

They are both quiet for a long minute, Noctis avoiding the king’s eyes.

In the end, he can’t stand the silence any longer. “What about Ignis?” he asks, some of his guilt creeping into his voice. “Is he alright?”

“Shouldn’t you have thought about that before?” Regis snaps. He pauses. “He is fine. He is recovering in the infirmary as we speak.” Despite Regis’ words, guilt keeps churning in Noctis’ stomach.

“I think it would be best if we were both given some time to calm down,” Regis says in the end. “But do not believe that this will be without consequences. In the future, the glaives will guard you rather than the Crownsguard. They can keep up with you, even if you should decide to try your hand at warping out of a window again.”

Noctis bites his lips and looks away. Even as despair churns in his stomach – he has messed up his chance - he realizes that he is getting off easy.

“Whatever,” he murmurs, and allows the glaives – his new guards – to drag him back to his room.

_Noctis watches as the diplomat from Accordo picks off the pieces of skewered wild trout from his plate._

_He watches and he waits, while his father smiles pleasantly at him, and makes conversation, and waits for the poison to work._

_The man has eaten half of his plate when he stiffens and raises a hand to his throat._

_“What…” he murmurs, and the smile on his father’s face grows._

_“You’ll find,” he says, “that I do not take gently to treason.” He calls the man by his name, and by some others, but Noctis doesn’t remember exactly what he says. All he can hear is the blood rushing in his ears and the sound of the man choking on his own breath._

_“Please,” the man is begging his father. He doesn’t know better. Noctis knows. He knows that the man had been doomed from the moment he set foot into his father’s palace. “I have not done anything.”_

_“So you are just as willing to lie to your Emperor as you are to betray his plans to his enemies,” Iedolas is saying, his lips pursed as he wipes traces of red wine from his mouth._

_“No,” the man begs. “I didn’t.”_

_It doesn’t matter whether he’s lying or not. His father is convinced of the man’s guilt, and looking into his eyes Noctis can’t help but believe that he is right._

_“Noctis,” his father says._

_Noctis requires neither clarification nor instructions. He steps forward and slits the man’s throat._

Noctis startles awake, shaking.

The sheets of the bed are clinging to his body, pinning him down to the mattress. With shaky fingers, he pulls them away from him, and shivers when the cold night air hits his skin. He doesn’t fall asleep easily again.

One of the glaives wakes Noctis in the morning, pounding against the door and calling his name. Before the man finds a reason to enter his room, Noctis stands up, shrugging off his clothes and disappearing into the bathroom.

When he returns, his clothes are gone and have been replaced by plain black clothes, silver embellishments woven into its sleeves. Noctis curses, picking up the new attire and wondering what would happen if he refused to wear it. It’s black – the colour of the royal family. The message is clear.

With few options left to him, and Noctis unwilling to provoke the king without a reason, he slips into the new clothes. They fit him and feel more comfortable than he is ready to admit.

One of the glaives – he’ll have to start to distinguish them – brings in his breakfast, and leaves with the empty plate. A few minutes later, Noctis is on his way to the king. He recognizes the path they are following almost immediately and grimaces, attempting to push down his uneasiness.

Instead of allowing the glaives to push him through the door to the king’s office, Noctis walks through with his chin raised. He is not prepared to see Ignis Scientia leaning against the wall, his eyes trained on him, and Gladiolus Amicitia by his side.

His fa- the king is sitting at his desk, absently writing on a long scroll of paper. He waves at Noctis when he enters. “Good morning, Noctis. Please give me a few more minutes. This is quite urgent.”

Noctis stares at the man for a few seconds before deciding not to demand answers. Instead, he turns towards Ignis.

“Sorry about hitting you with a paperweight,” he says curtly. Someone is coughing behind him but Noctis doesn’t pay it any mind. “I showed terrible manners and I hope I did not hurt you badly.”

Scientia’s sharp gaze softens imperceptibly. “I forgive you, Your Highness,” he answers diplomatically. “You thought yourself in danger, and reacted accordingly.”

Noctis stares at him. For someone who he – probably- knocked unconscious, the man is surprisingly forgiving. Or if he is not, he is hiding it proficiently. He takes a hesitant step forward.

“Your head is looking fine,” he says, wonder sneaking into his voice. He had thought that he had hit harder but Ignis’ head doesn’t show any marks.

“Trust me, it looked pretty bad when I visited him in the infirmary,” Gladio tells him dryly. “They used a potion on him. And kept him there for the night in case of him having a concussion.”

Noctis licks his lips. “A potion?”

Gladio is quiet for a moment, then he curses silently. “You guys don’t have them, do you?” he questions.

Noctis doesn’t answer.

“Hey, Nyx,” Gladio bellows. “You got a potion on your hand to show him?”

One of his glaive guards is stepping forward and Noctis watches, fascinated, as the man pulls a small glass bottle from thin air.

“They’re made with Lucian magic,” he says, and Noctis tries to place his accent. Is he from Galahd? Curiously, he inspects the bottle. At the edge of his senses, he can feel a strange buzzing from the flask, like there is familiar energy trapped inside of it.

“You are also capable of creating potions,” King Regis suddenly speaks up. Noctis hastily takes a step back and realizes that the man has abandoned his desk and is now walking towards them with measured steps. “And considering how you can already use your skills to warp, creating a potion should not be much more trouble.”

Noctis stares at the bottle of swirling magic. “Seems much more complicated to me.”

To his surprise, his comment makes Regis laugh. He scowls at him. Wasn’t the man furious with him just yesterday?

“So do you want to-“

He never gets to finish his sentence. The very next moment, the door to the king’s office flies open and Cor The Immortal enters in a hurry.

“Your Majesty,” he says urgently. Noctis thinks absently that if a man had entered his father’s office in such a way – and without a proper bow – he would have had the man killed immediately. Cor had to be very sure of his position to risk something like that.

“What is it, Cor?” Regis questions him calmly but Noctis believes that he can see the king tense imperceptibly.

The Immortal’s gaze snaps towards Noctis. “I have news regarding Niflheim,” he answers stiffly. “But I’m not sure I should divulge while…” he gestures at Noctis who doesn’t have the energy to feel offended.

Regis is quiet for a moment, then shakes his head. “Tell us,” he orders. Stunned, Noctis blinks at him.

To his credit, the marshal carries on without any further hesitation. “A large chain of magitek transports has been spotted heading towards Insomnia. More transports have been reported to follow on the ground. It appears that the lack of communication with their troopers and their Emperor has notified them that something is wrong. Thus they are preparing to force their entry into Insomnia.”

Regis’ face darkens. “How much time until they arrive?”

Cor sighs. “A day, not more.”

“Will we be able to hold them off?”

The marshal remains tense. “We should be able to but not if more troops follow. I have ordered reinforcements to draw back into the city lines but they, too, will need time to arrive.”

The king massages his temples for a few seconds. Then, his gaze locks onto Noctis. “You will have to send a message to them.”

Noctis sputters. “Excuse me?”

Regis looks composed but there is determination flickering in his eyes, a hint of the strong will and temper that Noctis has already gotten an impression of. “There will be a fight within the day or the next in front of the city gates. We might be able to hold our own – for now – but the battle is going to turn bloody either way. If not immediately, at the latest when their reinforcements arrive.”

Noctis is still trying to wrap his head around what the man is asking of him. “And you think I can stop them?” he asks.

“Of course.” There is no hesitation in the answer. “You are their prince. They will listen to what you tell them.”

Noctis scowls at him. “And I’m supposed to – what? Tell them _that their Emperor is still ill_ but he’ll _surely recover soon_?”

The king sighs, a first showing of his nerves.

“Something like that, yes. It’s the radio silence that alerted them. If you give a plausible explanation, they will draw back.”

Noctis feels a familiar rage reigniting in his stomach. “I think I formulated this badly,” he says quietly, furiously. “ _Why_ would I tell them that?”

“Noctis…”

“Because I certainly don’t remember agreeing to help you!”

“My son -“

“Throw me into the cells for all that I care! I won’t help you! You’re still keeping me prisoner here!”

A sigh. “How often do I have to tell you that you are not a prisoner in this place, Noctis?”

Noctis glares at him, his hands clenched to fists. “Let me go then.”

The king doesn’t move, doesn’t answer, just stares at him with increasing frustration showing on his face.

“No?” Noctis questions silently. “I thought so.” The venom on his tongue is burning him and he wishes he could lunge himself at the man, to hurt him as much as he is hurting him. He is distantly aware that Cor The Immortal and his two retainers are watching him, and he fights against the urge to pace – or to storm out of the room entirely. Would they drag him back in? Or throw him back into his room, barely better than a cell, so he can brood over how he is failing _both_ of his families? 

“Both Insomnians and Imperial troops will die if you keep quiet,” Regis states finally. When Noctis raises his head to stare at him, he notices how tired the man looks. He does not feel pity. 

“Do I look like I care if your people die?” he snap out, his emotions still boiling.

“Innocents!” Noctis flinches back when the king raises his voice, a flash of rage visible in his eyes. “Innocents will die.”

 _It’s war_ , Noctis wants to say. He feels a quiver in the air, like a thunderstorm about to break loose. _There will be war as soon as they learn the truth._

Shakily, he exhales. If he refuses to send the message, the magitek troops which are on their way will be destroyed. But their destruction would be a clear signal to the Empire and the army would set out to tear Insomnia down for their crimes. It should feel like a victory. It’s what he has been hoping for all this time.

He thinks about the people he saw cheering outside of the Citadel when they had first arrived. Their lifes will be destroyed as well, shaken out of the normalcy of their daily life, all because – he glares at Regis – their king hadn’t bothered to think of the _consequences_ of killing the leader of a vast empire.

Noctis can stop this. Noctis can stop this and he’ll remain a prisoner, and there will not a war. He’ll remain a prisoner, until his next attempt of escape, and the next, and the next, until either he succeeds or it kills him first.

“Fine,” he growls out, and pretends that he doesn’t hear the collective sigh of relief that echoes through the room. “Fine, I’ll do it.”

They don’t trust him enough to let him speak to the commander of the magiteks directly. Instead, Noctis is led to a small room where the preparations for the recording of a video message are just being finished. He spends the waiting time to prepare mentally for what he is going to say, and before long, one of the technicians is waving him forward to step in front of the camera.

To his surprise, Ignis pulls him back by the shoulder before he arrives on the indicated spot. He is pushing a familiar vest with the Imperial sigil into his hands – the same vest that had been taken away from Noctis before.

“They’ll be suspicious if you are suddenly running around in Lucian clothing,” the man offers quietly. Noctis nods.

“Thank you.”

Ignis clears his throat and returns to his place behind the camera while Noctis shrugs on the vest. He can see Regis, Cor and Clarus standing there as well while Gladio has taken a stand next to the door. The light is shining into Noctis’ eyes, making it difficult to make out their expressions. He pushes the question out of his mind and turns his full attention to the camera.

“This message goes out for the commander in charge of the magitek troops approaching Insomnia,” he says, every word pronounced clearly and his face schooled back into the polite mask he is wearing for political purposes. “I hereby order that you cease and desist, the assistance of troops within the city is not required.”

He doesn’t stumble over the next words, even as he feels his face heat up. “I regret having to inform you that my father has fallen severely ill. The king of Lucis has kindly offered his full support and his doctors are treating my father as we speak.” If he will ever get out, he can claim that he was forced to say this, forced to assist the lie. The houses of Niflheim would believe him, or they’d be forced to remain silent about their suspicions.

“Until he has recovered, I will remain by his side. While the signing of the peace treaty with Lucis has been delayed, I am sure that the efforts will be taken up again as soon as my father has recovered.”

The red light of the camera blinks out of existence and Noctis sighs silently, his shoulders slumping. He can’t believe that despite his intents, he is helping the king.

Not the king, he reminds himself quietly. With his father dead, the attack on Insomnia is unavoidable. Noctis will simply have to ensure that he’s in the right part of the city when it starts.

In the meantime, the king of Lucis has approached him with firm steps and is laying a heavy hand on his shoulder. “I am proud of you, son,” he says quietly. “And grateful, too.”

Noctis forces himself not to look away. “It’s only a temporary measure,” he answers hesitantly. The man doesn’t believe that he has _solved_ any of his problems, does he?

“Of course. But sometimes progress can only be measured from day to day.”

Scratching his neck, Noctis shrugs. He pulls the Imperial vest a little bit closer over his chest, and wonders why he is missing the soft Lucian cloth.

They eat in one of the king’s private dining rooms and it’s an awkward affair, Regis trying to make small talk while Noctis is poking at his food. The recording has left him in a bad mood and it doesn’t get any better when Regis suggests a visit to the crystal of Lucis.

“It’s your birth right to take a look at it,” Regis says when Noctis protests half-heartedly. “After all, you are just as connected to it as I am.”

Noctis thinks about it for a moment. If he knew where the crystal was placed in the Citadel, it could be a tactical advantage. More than that, knowing more about the crystal – and the magic that came from it – could only be advantageous in the future. His father wouldn’t have been so interested in it without a reason. Lucis wouldn’t have thrived as it had in the past if not for the crystal.

“Alright, fine,” he agrees and ignores the way the king’s face is lighting up.

They start to move through the Citadel, accompanied by the king’s shield and the glaives. Ignis and Gladio stay behind since the access to the crystal is restricted rigorously. Cor The Immortal stays in the recording room to supervise the transmission of the message.

Noctis does his best to map the way to the crystal. While it’s a long and twisted way towards it, he feels confident that he could at least locate the quarter of the Citadel where it is being kept. Then they’re in front of it, the glaives guarding the entrance with sharp eyes.

“The king protects the crystal,” Regis is saying. Noctis nods absently as he cautiously steps closer, enraptured, his entire focus drawn to the crystal. It’s huge, a lot bigger than Noctis had expected, and it is magnificient. The many edges and glittering surfaces of the crystal reflect a light back at Noctis that seems enhanced, stronger, purer than anything he has witnessed before. There is _power_ rolling through the air, an ancient sense of a presence that can not be fully understood by the human mind.

“It is a gift from the gods,” Regis is continuing and Noctis tries to pay his words some attention. “The reigning king of Lucis can channel its power – through the Ring of the Lucii.” Noctis throws a glance back at the king and, maybe for the first time, notices the black ring that is shining on his finger.

“So what’s stopping someone from taking the ring and the crystal for themselves?” he asks, unable to keep the question in.

Regis smiles. “The souls of the kings before us are caught within the ring. They protect it. That is why only the king can wear the ring and use its power.“

Noctis frowns. “So if you had died without finding me, the Wall would have fallen?”

The king’s smile grows pained. “Indeed.”

Humming, Noctis steps closer to the crystal. From this close, he can see every dip and furrow. His breath held, he holds out a hand towards the crystal and touches the –

 _“How dare he touch the crystal,”_ a voice is screaming in his head.

 _“Full of deceit, his thoughts are,”_ another voice agrees.

“ _The scion of Niflheim_ ,” someone says disdainfully.

 _“He cannot be trusted.”_ Pain is suddenly lancing through Noctis’ body, starting out from his arm and diving down his body, until he’s screaming, he feels like he is screaming, his body wrecked by tremors –

_“Regis should know better but to bring the enemy into our midst.”_

_“I am not your enemy!”_ Noctis wants to yell. If only the pain would stop. He can’t _breathe_.

_“Oh? Prove it.”_

_“Prove it!”_

_“Prove it.”_

Noctis slings his arms over his face but there is no hiding from the cold gazes, from the fury and the accusations.

“Noctis?” a hand touches his own. “Noctis!”

He wrenches back and his hand disconnects from the crystal, leaving him tumbling backwards.

“What the fuck,” he curses. His father is staring back at him, worry displayed as openly as a wound. “What was that? Did you _hear that_?”

The king’s concerned gaze doesn’t leave his face. “Hear what, Noctis? You were touching the crystal – and the next moment you looked pained and started shaking. Are you alright? What happened?”

Noctis takes another step back – away from the crystal, away from the voices –

“I’m fine,” he says. “Nothing happened. It’s fine.”

The king doesn’t look convinced – Noctis had been able to lie better when he was _ten_ – but he lets the matter rest, not pushing to learn more. “If you say so.” A pause. “You know that you can talk to me, right, Noctis?”

Noctis shivers and slides his hands over his arms in an effort to keep warm.

“Can we leave? It’s cold in here.”

“Of course.” Regis looks relieved when Noctis smiles at him, though still shakily.

“Now then,” he says, “since you haven’t enjoyed the visit to the crystal as much as I thought, let me make it up to you.” Noctis raises his brows. “I’ll show you how to use your magic to make a potion.”

Noctis stares at him in surprise.

“Come now, I saw how you looked at it when Nyx showed one to you.”

“Alright,” Noctis says slowly, unwilling to appear too eager. “I suppose it’s something that is good to know.”

This elicits a laugh from the king. “Follow me then, we will need a glass flask and the necessary additives. You see, we have rooms close to the glaives’ training grounds which are dedicated fully to the creation of potions, remedies and similar concoctions.”

He walks while he talks, explaining to Noctis how previous kings and scientists had worked together tirelessly to create an ideal combination of additives which would react well to Lucian magic. Noctis listens attentively. This information might be very useful in the future.

They reach the room Regis has been headed for and in the next hour, Noctis learns how to make a potion.

“Try again,” Regis says, laughing, when Noctis repeatedly fails to imbue the content of the glass flask with his magic. “Don’t try to force it. Your magic should come naturally to you. Grasp for the energy you feel, pull some of it forth and push it towards the flask.”

Noctis growls and glares at the flask and the liquid resting inside of it. He is sweating and a little hungry but determined to master this skill.

“Remember how you initiated your warping,” Regis suggests. “Try to grasp for that same feeling.”

Closing his hands around the flask, Noctis shuts his eyes. He feels for the nervous hum of energy beneath his skin. It’s right there, waiting for him, as if sensing his intentions. Determined, he grabs a hold of it and _tears_ it forward. Energy floods his hands, his skin, the air and then sinks into the flask in his hands.

“Yes, just like that! Well done, Noctis.”

Breathing out, he opens his eyes and stares at the flask and the shimmering liquid inside of it. He can feel that same hum of energy inside of it now.

“This is all?” he asks. “And this would work?”

Regis clasps a hand around his shoulder and Noctis shifts, uncomfortable, but doesn’t shake it off. 

“Yes.”

“Huh.” He scratches his head. “And what do you do when someone has been really badly hurt? Give him several potions? Do their effects add to each other?”

Regis nods. “That is an option. There is also the possibility of using hi-potions and elixirs. However, both require more energy to create them.”

Noctis nods. “Makes sense.”

“And in the worst-case scenario, there is also the Phoenix Down. It can not only heal the worst wounds but it can sometimes be used to revive people.”

Noctis tilts his head. “You’re joking.”

“No.”

“Revive? As in… bring them back to life?”

The king nods. “Unless their injury is too grave or too much time has passed. There is always the possibility of failure.” He moves towards one of the cupboards standing along the wall and pulls a long orange feather out of one compartment.

“Here, take it,” he says, offering it to Noctis. “This one still requires an infusion with magic. You can use it to train in your room.” Noctis accepts the feather, a little stunned. “But be cautious, Phoenix Downs require a lot of magic to craft. Don’t feel bad if you don’t succeed. And don’t try to create one after already exhausting your magic. They take their toll on your body.”

“I understand.” Noctis slides the feather beneath his vest.

Suddenly, there is a knock on the door and one of the glaives sticks his head inside the room.

“Your Majesty. Captain Drautos is here to see you.”

Regis scowls but nods. “Very well. Let him in.”

A man walks into the room and time screeches to a halt as Noctis lays eyes on General Glauca, military supreme commander and magitek infantry leader of Niflheim. He freezes in place, staring with wide eyes as the man sketches out an elegant bow to the king.

“Titus,” Regis says with terrible familiarity. “What do you have to report?”

Several pieces fall rapidly into place in Noctis’ mind. Why the man had never spent prolonged time at the palace in Niflheim, yet managed to be there every time their magiteks engaged with the kingsglaive. Why his father had always been confident about his informant in the Citadel. Why Lucis was slowly losing this war.

Subconsciously, he takes a step back and watches as the man interacts with the king as if he is an old friend.

“The commander of the magiteks seems to have received your message, Your Majesty,” Drautos reports. “The magitek transports have drawn back and the other troops are no longer approaching.”

Regis sighs quietly. “That is a relief to hear.” He pauses while Noctis tries to decide how he feels about this development. It is what the king had hoped for. Despite Regis’ expectations, Noctis is a little stunned that the commander listened to his order.

“How is the situation with the glaives?” Regis demands to know.

At this, the man’s gaze snaps towards Noctis. Noctis just barely manages not to flinch back. “They are mildly confused why we are now housing the future Emperor of Niflheim,” Drautos drawls. He bows, the same shallow, mocking bow he had always delivered in front of Noctis back in Niflheim. “Your Highness. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise,” Noctis murmurs, glad that he has the presence of mind to answer.

“Otherwise everyone is busy with the preparations Your Majesty has ordered in case of an attack on Insomnia.”

“Thank you, Titus,” Regis says. “I appreciate your hard work.”

Drautos lowers his head and, with one last glance at Noctis, heads out of the door.

“Now, as I told you, in potion-crafting you’ll need to take care that…” Regis turns back towards Noctis and frowns. “Noctis, you look pale. Is everything alright?”

Noctis forces himself to take his eyes away from the door which Drautos has disappeared through. “Yes. Of course.” He pauses. “Who was that?”

Regis smiles. “Oh, Titus? He is the Captain of my kingsglaive.”

Captain of the kingsglaive.

How delightful.

_“Get up,” Glauca’s is telling him, his voice distorted by the magitek helmet._

_“You know,” Noctis groans, “you are supposed to train me, not to beat me to a pulp.”_

_“Feeling pain is a part of making progress,” the man’s tinny voice informs him coldly._

_“You should write a book,” Noctis suggests. “Words of wisdom from General Glauca himself.”_

_“Less talking, more fighting.” Glauca ignores his words entirely. “Believe it or not, I have more things to do than teaching the Emperor’s kid how to fight.”_

_“Maybe you should leave some things to other people then,” Noctis argues, stumbling as he gets back to his feet. “Ravus Fleuret was just dying for some action the last time I spoke to him.”_

_“Ravus Fleuret can grow up before he offers to help me out,” Glauca grunts._

_“How rude,” Noctis tells him and ducks to avoid the greatsword swinging for his head._

Noctis wakes up from the sound of knocking. Disorientated, he grasps for the light switch and winces when the bright lights pierce his eyes. Hastily, he gets up from the bed, throwing over one of the black vests lying around. Is it that late already? He had been waking up long before anyone came to get him the last days!

“Yes?”

The door opens but instead of Ignis walking through, as he expected, it’s Titus Drautos. Noctis sharply sucks in a breath. In a strange mockery to his dream, the man strolls forward, softly closing the door behind him.

“Your Highness,” the man greets him, offering a shallow bow. “Or I suppose it’s Your Majesty now?”

“General Glauca,” Noctis hisses. “What are you doing here?”

The man laughs and raises his hands. “Believe it or not, I actually live only a few levels above yours.”

Noctis knits his brows, desperately trying to determine the man’s intentions. “You’re here to get me out?” He is surprised how his sudden flash of hope mingles with a hint of hesitation.

The man smiles a dangerous smile that is probably meant to be reassuring. “In a way, I am.”

Noctis fights the urge to take a step back. If the man harbours any ill intentions towards him - now that the Emperor is dead - he does not have a weapon to defend himself with.

“What do you mean?” he demands.

Glauca takes another step forward, towering over him. „I am going to take you back to Niflheim, Highness,“ he says seriously.

“That’s… great,” Noctis says haltingly, forcing a relieved smile onto his face. Just because he wants to get back home doesn’t mean that he _trusts_ the man.

“I couldn’t believe what I heard when I first learned about your father, “ Glauca says and he squeezes Noctis’ shoulder gently. “Regis did a terrible thing. And just when we were about to finally have peace.”

Noctis nods. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop him,” he whispers, old feelings of guilt rapidly consuming him. “I was right next to him when Regis… when the king…” He mimics the motion of a dagger being drawn, scared that his voice is going to give out.

“I know, Highness,” Glauca says sympathetically. “You couldn’t have stopped it. Nobody saw it coming. I am regretting deeply not having been there that day. I can only hope that you will forgive me.”

Noctis looks down. “You know that there is nothing to be forgiven. You said it yourself. Nobody could have seen it coming.”

“I warned him to introduce you to King Regis,” Drautos states. “But His Majesty was very determined.”

A frown grows on Noctis’ face. “That means you knew.” He does not frame it like a question. He doesn’t need to clarify what he means either.

Glauca bows his head. “I did. Everyone who had seen King Regis before and then met you in the court knew. That is the reason why His Majesty kept you away from the public eye. To protect you.”

“Protect me from the truth?” Noctis snaps out viciously before he can swallow the words back down.

The expression on Glauca’s face darkens and Noctis shrinks back. “Your claim to the throne,” he replies darkly. “Your claim to the throne would have been threatened. The court was believing you to be Emperor Iedolas’ own son.” There. He had said it. Whatever part of Noctis’ mind had still desperately hung onto the thought that Regis was lying and that Iedolas was his natural father struggles weakly and dies. 

“And they still do?”

“Yes.”

Nodding, Noctis lowers his head. “Good. So when are we leaving?”

“To Niflheim?” Glauca questions. “As soon as possible. You have spent long enough in this damned Citadel.”

“Then why not leave right now?” Noctis asks, before his resolution to leave can waver.

Glauca smiles. “I understand the rush, Your Highness,” he says. “But we cannot leave just like that.”

Noctis scowls. “Why not?”

“I am sure you are aware of your weakened position right now,” the man explains, frustratingly calm. “Your father is dead. The peace treaty has been renounced. A future peace treaty is unlikely since you entering King Regis’ domain once more means risking your life and your freedom.” 

“What’s your point?” Noctis demands.

“Most of the royal houses of Niflheim will recognize your claim,” Glauca continues, as calmly as if Noctis hadn’t even spoken. “But some of them will not. They are always hungry for power. And you are young and inexperienced and you have just lost the only person that protected you from the court. You will have to prove yourself worthy. Strengthen your position.”

“I suppose that makes sense,” Noctis agrees. “But how?”

Glauca looks into his eyes. “You will have to kill the king of Lucis.”

Noctis jerks back in shock, his eyes going wide and panicked. “What?”

“It is the only way.” Glauca moves closer to him, kneeling down in front of him as he places his hands on Noctis’ shoulders. “The king is in a position of power right now. There is the risk that he will reveal your true identity to the royal houses of Niflheim. With the Emperor dead, there is the chance that he will attack Niflheim itself. The crystal fuels him, gives him unfathomable power. If we want this war to be over – if we want to put you on the throne and have you ruling a peaceful nation – then _he needs to be gone_.”

Noctis feels like he is frozen in place, like his mind has been numbed and he is just a spectator, watching as his life falls apart around him.

“I… I can’t kill him,” he says finally, feebly. “He’s my father.”

Glauca frowns angrily. “When has he ever been a father to you? That man _took your father away from you_. Have you forgotten already? Forgiven him for how he slayed Emperor Iedolas in cold blood? In his own house, after crawling to him with an offer of peace?”

“No, he…”

“I would do it myself,” Glauca continues, his hands tightening on Noctis’ shoulders. “But I can’t. _You_ are the only one who can get close enough, who can make him lower his guard.”

Noctis shakes his head, even as he realizes that Glauca is right. He had seen the king summon weapons from midair. There is no doubt that a simple assassination attempt would fail.

“Do it for your people,” Glauca whispers. “For Niflheim and for your father.”

“For my father,” Noctis repeats, mind buzzing.

Something cold presses into his hand and when he looks down, he sees Glauca pressing the hilt of a dagger into his hand.

“Your father would be proud of you, Your Highness,” Glauca tells him, and watches as Noctis hides the dagger beneath his clothes. “I need to go now. But when the deed is done, know that I will be near and I will take you home.”

Noctis nods and squeezes his eyes closed. He wants to go home _now_. He hears Glauca getting back up and stepping to the door. The man pauses.

“I am sorry about your loss,” he says.

And then he’s gone and the door is locked again and Noctis is alone.

When Ignis enters the room, Noctis has long since washed the tears off his face.


	4. Friends, family and worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The High Commander of the Imperial Forces makes an entrance. Noctis makes a fatal mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up!! Believe it or not, we are actually getting close to the climax of this story!

“And then you focus on which form you want your magic to take,” the king of Lucis explains to him patiently. “All kinds of elemancy have their own pitfalls and strengths, depending on their use and the situation at hand.”

Noctis nods distractedly.

“So why not fight only with the elements?” he asks. “Why rely on traditional weapons?”

Regis laughs. “My son, you underestimate the amount of energy these spells consume. They are powerful, yes. But no king has ever been born who could just forego all weaponry entirely.”

Noctis takes care not to flinch at the address and stares out of the window instead. The king eyes him curiously. “You are distracted,” he observes.

This time, he does flinch. Is it that easy to see through him? And if Regis sees through him that easily, how will he be able to sneak up on him?

“I want to know what you are reporting to the news,” Noctis replies before he can lose his nerves.

The king sighs. “Actually, I have been intending to speak to you about that,” he says quietly. “We do not believe that we can keep up reporting that the Emperor’s condition is unchanged. Our… informants noted that the commanders of the army are growing nervous without any orders from the Emperor himself.”

“I told them that everything is fine,” Noctis say nervously.

“I know, I know. You did. But that doesn’t change the fact that you are only the Heir for now and not the Emperor himself.” Regis looks troubled by this but Noctis refuses to feel pity for him. He brought this situation onto himself.

“Before long – before the wrong rumours can spread – we will have to announce the truth to them: That the Emperor has died,” the man admits quietly.

“How?” Noctis drawls. “Are you going to tell them that he passed away in his sleep?”

Regis burrows his fingers into his hair and sighs. “No. We will tell them that he succumbed to his illness.”

“His sudden illness that nobody knew about beforehand,” Noctis bites out. “Who will believe you?”

The king’s eyes narrow. “No one but the Crownsguard that was present has seen what has happened and they would never betray Lucis. Everyone else can do nothing but speculate.” His gaze softens. “And you forget that it’s your word against theirs. You have been a direct witness to everything.”

 _General Glauca knows_ , Noctis thinks. _And he will not allow the murder of the Emperor to go unpunished._

“Alright then,” he says aloud. “You have my blessings to tell them.” _I can deny everything as soon as I’m back in Niflheim. They’ll know that I have been threatened by the enemy._

The king smiles, stretching out to lay a hand against Noctis’ cheeks. “I can only imagine how difficult this is for you, my son,” he says. “You are very strong.”

“I’m managing.” Noctis shrugs. “Show me again how to do that ice spell.”

It’s all over the news the next morning. Noctis watches the news, alongside Ignis and Gladio, after he has begged them to show him. They have given in easily – after asking the king for permission.

Thus Noctis watches, with a strange kind of detachment, as Regis appears in the news, clothed in black, and declares the bad news. It feels unreal to him.

 **Emperor Iedolas’ condition rapidly worsened over the night** , a headline proclaims at the edge of the screen.

 **The Emperor is dead** , another one declares dramatically. **Where does this leave Niflheim?**

Noctis bites on his tongue and focuses on the pain to distract himself from another pain, one that lies deeper and burns like acid.

“Your Highness,” one of his guards pipes up. “The king has just requested your presence in his office.”

Regally, Noctis acknowledges the man and turns to follow him. Gladio and Ignis are just a few steps behind him. He has grown accustomed to their presence in the last days and he thinks that he might miss them when he’s back in Niflheim. Of course they won’t want anything to do with him at that point.

He enters the office without prompting, knocking politely before entering. The dagger Glauca has given him weighs heavily beneath his clothes.

“Your Majesty,” he greets with a shallow smile. “I heard that you wanted to speak to me.”

“Noctis.” Regis’ smile is warmer and it feels real where Noctis’ does not. “I told you not to call me that in private.”

Noctis shrugs. “My father…” He corrects himself. “The Emperor was always pleased when I called him that,” he explains.

The king’s smile wavers a bit. “That won’t be necessary,” he states gently. “You can call me ‘Regis’ if you don’t feel comfortable with any other address.”

Nodding, Noctis walks closer. He’s not going to call him ‘father’, that is for sure. That title belongs to another man, dead and not even buried yet.

“We were watching the news when I heard about your request,” he informs the man. “What is it?”

Regis’ expression turns serious and he fidgets with the pen he is holding in his hand. “High Commander Ravus Nox Fleuret of the Imperial Army has just made contact with us,” he reveals. “He demands to speak to you. Personally.”

Noctis jerks in surprise, then forces his suddenly racing mind to calm down. “I see. And do you intend to give in to his request?”

Several emotions flash over the man’s face quickly – astonishment, relief and something like sheepishness.

“I cannot force you to speak to him,” Regis admits. “But I would be very pleased if you did.”

“But don’t get any funny ideas,” Clarus rumbles from behind the king. “We would be watching the conversation very closely.”

“Clarus!” Regis hisses.

Noctis smiles despite himself. “It’s alright,” he interjects. “His caution is justified.” He thinks about the new situation for a few moments. “I’ll do it.”

Regis’ face lights up. It’s almost painful to watch. “You will?”

Forcing himself to keep smiling, Noctis tilts his head. “Of course. We don’t want any hostilities or approaches of the Imperial Army as it happened three days ago.” 

“Excellent,” the king says. “I shall order the arrangements for the conversation right away.”

King Regis works fast.

Two hours after Noctis has learnt of the newest development, he is being led into a meeting room not unlike the one where they had recorded his first statement. From a large display screen, the red light of a camera is blinking at him. Regis, Clarus and Cor file in behind him and place themselves out of sight of the camera. They will observe the conversation – and interfere if necessary. He remembers Cor’s warnings vividly. 

Noctis steps in front of the screen and watches as it lights up and the picture of Ravus Nox Fleuret, High Commander of the Imperial Forces, comes to life on it. Ravus looks older than the last time Noctis has seen him, and more weary, but that doesn’t necessarily have to be traced back to Noctis’ absence.

They haven’t met in a long time but Noctis remembers well their meetings when they had both still been young and foolish. If he had called anyone within the Empire his friend, it would have been Ravus.

He smiles at him as Ravus bows on the large screen. “Your Highness,” the silver-haired man greets him. “It fills me with great pleasure to see you alive and well.”

“Thank you, Ravus,” Noctis answers warmly. “It’s good to see you, too.” He doesn’t think that the hidden concern in Ravus’ face is faked and it feels good to see someone from Niflheim who cares for him – who awaits his return.

“I cannot express how much I was saddened to hear about His Majesty’s passing,” Ravus continues. These words may be a lie, Noctis considers sadly. He remembers well the fires of Tenebrae and he doubts that Ravus has ever forgiven the Emperor for the murder of his mother. In the privateness of his mind, he has always suspected that Ravus’ wish for power, for a high position in command, can be traced back to his helplessness while he watched his home burn.

Despite his suspicions, Noctis thanks him gracefully.

“Hearing about the illness was very unexpected,” Ravus continues and Noctis forces himself to stay relaxed.

“He had been feeling unwell during the entire journey here,” Noctis lies flawlessly. “And it worsened rapidly once we arrived. We expected a delay of the signing of a few days at most but then…” He trails off, raising a hand to his mouth while his face scrunches up in agony.

He waits like that for a few moments, then visibly composes himself. “The doctors said that they did all that they could. It just wasn’t enough.” It’s easy to allow bitterness to flow into his voice.

“Did they?” Ravus questions and Noctis tilts his head in confusion. “Did they try their best?”

Noctis processes his words. The hidden accusation is obvious. Had the doctors actually tried to save the Emperor? Or had they allowed him to die - the king of Lucis sensing an opportunity to get rid of a rival and using it?

“I was with him until the very end,” Noctis admits. “I don’t think there was anything anyone could have done.”

Ravus’ eyes don’t leave his face but he seems to recognize that Noctis is telling the truth, even if it is not the whole truth.

“So when will you return to the Empire?” he questions. “I can send out a transport right away if you wish.” The message is clear: Is he imprisoned within the Citadel? Ravus can get him out if needed.

Two days ago, Noctis would have begged for an offer such as this. Now, he’ll be forced to refuse it. He cannot leave until he has fulfilled the promise he has given Glauca.

“That will not be necessary,” he answers. “The king has offered to help me prepare the funeral. I will be staying in the Citadel for the near future.” He isn’t sure what Regis is assuming to happen next. Does he believe they can just play house until the Empire comes knocking again? His excuses for his continued stay will run out before long. Luckily, Noctis is planning to be long gone at that point.

“After your father’s funeral, the royal houses will demand a coronation soon,” Ravus informs him. He is probably telling him that Noctis needs to get back soon to realize his claim to the throne. His father’s death has created a power vacuum that needs to be filled as soon as possible. Otherwise, the vultures will make a grab for it.

“I understand,” Noctis says and hopes that Ravus knows that he is picking up his silent messages.

Ravus hesitates, staring at him silently. “Are you well, Your Highness?” he asks finally. “You are looking a bit pale.”

Noctis forces himself to laugh. “I assure you I am quite fine.” _Everything is under control_ , he tries to tell Ravus silently.

Ravus raises his brows. “You know that you can count on me should you find yourself in any… unpleasant situation.” It’s way too easy to interpret this statement.

This time, Noctis’ smile isn’t forced at all. “I know, Ravus,” he answers honestly. “And I am very grateful for it.” 

With a slight scowl, Ravus looks to the side. “We haven’t been able to contact the troopers that accompanied you and your father. Is there a reason for that?”

Noctis chuckles. Ravus is getting bolder and more obvious with his advances. Behind the camera, Clarus and Cor are staring at him. “I’m afraid there have been some communication issues,” he explains. “I wouldn’t count on a reestablishment of the contact any time soon.”

Ravus huffs, his face darkening as his suspicions receive new fuel. “I would be surprised if the Lucians weren’t able to help out with such issues.”

“Those problems haven’t exactly been a priority,” Noctis remarks snidely.

“Your Highness…” Ravus trails off. He suddenly raises his head and stares at Noctis unflinchingly. “You are not being threatened, are you?”

Noctis is prepared for the question and doesn’t flinch, even as he feels Cor’s and Clarus’ gazes burn holes into his skin. He sighs. “No, Ravus. I understand why you would assume such a thing but I can assure you that I am not in danger.” Only seconds after he has answered, he realizes that he hasn’t denied having been threatened.

Ravus hesitates. “In that case, I would request regular updates on your status and on when you will return, Your Highness. It will ease my worries.” He hasn’t convinced him entirely then.

Warmth blooms in Noctis’ chest and he nods with a smile. “I am sure that will be possible.”

The Commander nods at him and sketches a bow. “I will await your return patiently. Rest assured that I will work hard in your absence to assure that all can progress as planned once you return.” Noctis blinks. Is Ravus implying that he will protect Noctis not only from Insomnia but from internal conflicts within the Empire as well? He wasn’t aware that he had inspired such loyalty in the man.

“Thank you,” he repeats, stunned. “I appreciate it.”

Regis is very pleased with the conversation with the High Commander. He congratulates Noctis on holding himself together very well and assures him that he is very proud of him. Noctis is a little bit flustered but he manages to grumble out some proper responses and hides his head between his shoulders in the meantime.

Afterwards, Regis is leading him back towards his office.

“I have prepared some plans and ideas on where to go from here,” he explains blithely. “And Cor and I have been working on an improved form of the peace treaty. I am sure you will appreciate the changes as they…”

He keeps talking but Noctis stops following his words, distracted with the sudden realization that he is walking directly behind Regis. Unless usual, Clarus is not walking behind Regis but is walking behind Noctis instead. He isn’t sure whether this is an oversight or a calculated risk to allow them to talk privately.

Either way it is a mistake.

Regis enters his office and Noctis follows. The moment his feet have crossed the door’s threshold, he whirls around, grabs the door and slams it shut in front of Clarus’ alarmed face. He doesn’t bother with the lock – he has so little time! – and instead reaches for the magic buzzing beneath his skin, for the feeling of an ice-cold wind blasting into his face, of the soft coldness of snowflakes melting on his skin.

It comes willingly, eagerly, like the magic has just waited for his command.

 _Freeze_ , Noctis commands and points towards the door. Thick shards of ice spread over it in seconds, closing the gaps between door and doorframe and forming an impassable barrier.

He has trained for this in the time they had left him alone and imprisoned in his dark room, in the evening, and in the morning, too. Had repeated the motion until it came easily, until he could summon the element blindly, and strike as quickly as a daemon in the night. It had left him shaking and weakened in the first night but he had persisted, and now he barely feels winded at all.

The loud bang has alerted Regis that something is wrong, and he is whirling around to face Noctis. He doesn’t allow himself time to think. He has to act quickly, before Regis can think to defend himself. He remembers well the blade that dropped into Regis’ hand from thin air, that fateful day.

Noctis strikes, his dagger a glinting light in the twilight of the office. Regis stumbles backwards, sucking in a sharp breath, his eyes wide open.

“Wait,” he says, and, “Noctis!”

Noctis doesn’t listen. He sets after him with a jump, his aim true as he slashes the weapon towards Regis unprotected throat.

Before it can connect, a broad shield materializes in front of Regis, the sigil of Lucis edged into the cold metal. Blue sparks dance around it and Noctis curses loudly. He’s come so far. He can’t give up now. Any second now, Clarus and the glaives will break down the door. He doesn’t have the _time_ to fight the king of Lucis for real. He doesn’t think about whether he could win such a fight in the first place.

Out of options, Noctis grabs the edge of the shield and focuses, thinking of glowing embers in a fireplace and the roaring inferno of a country that is burning. The shield heats up within seconds, the metal serving as an ideal conductor.

Regis yelps in pain as the shield burns his fingers where he holds it, and instinctively drops it.

Noctis lunges at him before he can think of summoning another weapon and they go tumbling to the floor. Somehow, Noctis ends up on top of him and he pins down Regis’ hands, not unlike Gladio had done to him days ago.

Again, the familiar buzzing beneath his fingers and the magic floods out of him as clear crystals materialize over Regis’ wrists, keeping his hands pinned to the floor.

He grabs the dagger that has fallen to the ground in their shuffle and closes both hands around the hilt. The screams that come from the door are ringing loudly in his ears, and he can hear someone trying to break it down, heavy strong thumps against old wood. He doesn’t turn to look back. He doesn’t know whether he’ll have time to escape after this, doesn’t even know whether he could manage a warp out of the window. It doesn’t matter. For Niflheim, for his _father_ , he has to do this.

He clutches his blade more tightly and raises it high above Regis’ chest. The man is staring up at him with wide eyes, a pained expression on his face.

“Noctis,” he says very softly. “You don’t have to do this.”

Suddenly, there are tears burning at the edges of Noctis’ vision and he blinks them back furiously. Why would he cry for the man that killed his father?

“I have to,” he finds himself replying. “There’s no other way. You… I-“ His voice gives out abruptly and he finds to his horror that he is shaking badly, the blade trembling in his grasp. Regis’ expression gives away to resignation, and a sadness that pierces Noctis’ heart more deeply than a dagger could have done.

“I forgive you,” the king breathes and leans his head back. Noctis chokes on a sob. He raises the blade higher – why can’t he stop _shaking_ –

This is his father.

Despite the anger, despite the resentment, despite the horrible circumstances that have drawn them apart. This is the man who showed him how to infuse a flask with healing magic and laughed when Noctis suggested using an energy drink to do so.

This is the man that had laughed while he had picked him up and whirled him around to settle him on his shoulders, when he had been so small that he barely reached the man’s knees.

The tears are falling from his face freely now.

He lowers his blade.

It’s not that he doesn’t have to do it. It’s that he _can’t_ do it.

A body slams into him, and Noctis goes rolling, his head hitting against the floor and a thousand lights flaming up behind his eyes. He grunts as something – someone – drops onto his back, pressing his face against the cold ground. Hands appear, pressing down on his arms, his shoulders and his legs.

Something hard hits his knuckles and he yelps in pain, his hand spasming and letting go of the dagger. He doesn’t struggle but that doesn’t make his treatment any gentler. He tries to turn his head but it gets pressed back down and tears of pain spring into his eyes.

“Regis,” he can hear someone asking frantically. _Clarus_ , he thinks dimly. “Regis, are you alright?”

He can’t see his father from his position on the ground but he can hear a slight sizzling and the rustling of clothes a moment later. He must have gotten back up to his feet. Noctis squeezes his eyes closed and wishes he was anywhere but here. He can’t look the man into the eyes after what he has done. _He’s alright_ , he thinks with an odd relief. Then he remembers burned fingers and ice crusted around pale wrists and guilt closes a crushing grip around his ribcage.

“Get him up,” a sharp voice commands. “And get him out of my sight.”

Moments later, Noctis is being drawn up, his arms twisted painfully behind his back and a hand clutching his hair. “Move,” a voice growls into his ear and he is roughly being pushed forward, towards the remains of the door.

“No, wait,” his father’s hoarse voice calls out and Noctis stumbles to a halt.

“Regis, no,” Clarus interrupts sharply. “Not this time.”

There’s an unseen signal and Noctis is forced to move forward again. He stumbles through the corridors and tries not to listen to the screaming in his head. He has ruined everything, hasn’t he?

When the door to his room slams shut behind him, he doesn’t feel like it will open ever again. 

Regis requires several minutes to regain a resemblance of calm. In the meantime, he is being prodded at by two medics and Clarus. They do not let themselves be deterred by Regis assuring them that he is fine and not hurt.

“You’re a damn liar,” Clarus growls at him when he spots the cold burns on Regis’ wrists and the blisters on his fingers.

“I said it’s fine,” Regis replies, a bit of bite sneaking into his voice. But he doesn’t protest when Clarus gently breaks a potion over the tender skin and sighs softly when the magic fulfills its purpose.

Finally, the medics seem convinced that they haven’t missed any life-threatening injuries that Regis is hiding from them and they draw back from their king.

“That’s enough,” Regis declares, gesticulating at everyone but Clarus and points towards the door. “Everybody out.”

The medics and the glaives shuffle out of the room and Regis heaves out another sighs as he looks at the broken pieces of the door left on the floor.

“We should have expected him to try something like that,” Clarus huffs. “He was following our orders much too obediently to begin with. We just assumed he was getting used to the situation.”

Regis doesn’t answer and silence descends over the room for several minutes.

“He wasn’t going to do it,” he breaks the quiet, finally.

“What?”

“Noctis. He lowered his weapon, even before you hit him from the side.”

“Nonsense.”

“He did,” Regis insists, the sliver of hope in his chest growing stronger. “I saw it. He had tears in his eyes.”

Clarus sighs, running a hand over his face before collapsing in one of the chairs in the room. “Regis,” he says quietly. Gently, like he is trying to explain something to a frightened child. “I understand that you want to believe in him. I do. He is your son and you have mourned for him for such a long time… but he isn’t the small child you knew. You have to take a look at the facts.”

His gaze is unflinching but Regis knows him well enough to spot the pity, the compassion, in the man’s face. “Noctis just tried to kill you. And he might have succeeded if we hadn’t intervened.”

Regis turns his head away, unwilling to look his friend into the eyes right now.

“You’re not thinking rational about this, Regis.” He opens his mouth to protest but Clarus is already barreling on. “And I don’t blame you for this. But you should trust our judgement when you know that yours is clouded.”

He doesn’t want to acknowledge the words, doesn’t want to consider whether they are true. Noctis _had_ hesitated. He hadn’t imagined that.

“Where the hell did he get a dagger to begin with?” he asks, halfheartedly distracting from the direction their conversation is going.

Clarus’ scowls, the frown digging deep lines into his forehead. “That is something I would like to know as well. I am going to ask Cor to take a look at that as soon as possible. And question Noctis, even though I doubt that he is going to reveal anything.”

“You think that he stole it from one of the glaives?”

Clarus gives him a look that tells him that he has already seen through him. They both know how unlikely that is. But the thought of a traitor within the Citadel’s walls makes Regis’ head ache. They have enough problems as it is.

For a few minutes, they sit in silence, Regis progressing the events of the last hour – it had seemed like they were making _progress!_ How much of that had been a lie? – and Clarus silently guarding him and his privacy.

Just when Regis is starting to consider getting up and doing – well, something – Clarus speaks up.

“You scared the hell out of me, Reggie,” he admits quietly. “I thought I was going to lose you.”

Regis forces a smile onto his lips. “It’s going to take more than my own son attempting to stab me,” he replies lightly.

“This is no joking matter!” Oh, Clarus must have _really_ been worried. He wouldn’t sound so angry otherwise.

“No,” Regis confirms quietly. “No, it is not.”


	5. The blessing of the gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Captain Drautos makes his move. Noctis picks a side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here comes the grande finale!  
> I hope everyone enjoys it! Thank you all for having read this story! ;D

The hours of the day pass agonizingly slowly for Noctis. He attempts to sleep but whenever he closes his eyes he sees Regis’ pale face in front of him, lying on the ground, a dagger floating over his body.

He can’t believe that he nearly actually killed him. If Clarus and the glaives hadn’t stopped him –

But no. He couldn’t have, he _wouldn’t_ have done it. But who will believe him now? There is no doubt that Regis will resent him for what he has done, just like the glaives and everyone else. They have offered their open hand, their values and their protection, and Noctis had tried to stab them in the back. He wouldn’t trust himself either, if he was in their position.

His own disgust and self-hatred for his actions threaten to overwhelm him as he paces the room. From time to time, he summons a tiny flame in his hand, to check whether his family’s magic has abandoned him for what he has done.

Are they going to give up on him completely now? Or hand him over to Niflheim where he can eke out a living under the watchful eyes of the Emperor’s old court? Assuming that they will accept his reign and his claim to the throne. And where does this leave Lucis and Niflheim? Regis had spoken about an improved peace treaty, before Noctis had – before. He can only hope that he hasn’t ruined those plans with his actions.

His constant pacing is starting to tire him out but his hopelessly over-active mind won’t allow him to rest. It’s no surprise that he flinches when the door to his room creaks open. He isn’t sure who he is expecting but he finds himself relieved when he realizes that it is only Ignis. The man is carrying a tray with food, his expression cold and shuttered closed.

“Ignis,” Noctis breathes, with a lack of something else to say. “Thank you.”

The man doesn’t respond but puts the tray onto the table with a clatter and settles on a chair, waiting for Noctis to pick up the food. Probably watching to make sure Noctis doesn’t try to make a makeshift weapon out of broken pottery and silver spoons.

He eats very slowly, dreading the moment when he’ll be done and Ignis will leave him alone with his damning thoughts again.

“I’m sorry,” Noctis says at some point, dragging his spoon through a tasteless mixture of vegetables.

Ignis doesn’t blink. He is carrying a weapon today, Noctis notices, and tries not to feel guilty.

“What for?”

 _For nearly killing the king_ , Noctis thinks. _For being the enemy when you all want me to be your lost prince._

He shrugs, the food heavy in his stomach. “For everything, I suppose. I messed this all up, didn’t I?”

For the first time, Ignis truly _looks_ at him, and Noctis can’t decide whether he is looking angry or incredulous instead. Whatever he finds in Noctis’ face makes his expression soften up a little bit. “Well, we did force you into a position you didn’t want, didn’t we? It’s no surprise you fought against it.”

Noctis shakes his head. He can’t believe that Ignis is trying to _defend_ his actions. “I went too far,” he admits. “And you… you were meant to be the prince’s advisor,” – Ignis jolts at that – “and instead you got _me_. I’m not a prince of Lucis. I’m barely suited for being part of the royal family at all.” Again, there are tears threatening to break free from his control. Either way, Ignis can hear the way his voice hitches.

“You did not sign up to become an advisor for the prince of the enemy Empire,” Noctis whispers brokenly. He needs to stop talking or he will lose the pitiful rest of countenance he still clings to.

At his confession, Ignis sighs. “That’s quite enough,” he admonishes and Noctis falls quiet, his face burning. He drops his spoon onto his plate and shoves it away, deciding that he won’t be able to swallow another bite without heaving it all back up.

They are sitting in silence for several minutes, Ignis showing no intention of getting up and leaving. Noctis is ridiculously grateful.

“You could tell us who gave you that dagger,” Ignis suggests when Noctis’ eyes are starting to droop. 

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I should do that.” They need to know about Glauca. Just because Noctis failed doesn’t mean the man won’t try again to get the king killed. He is dangerous, and worse, he has the king’s full trust. Noctis decides that the very next morning he is going to request to be brought to the king so that he can tell him about his captain’s hidden identity.

Something is gently touching his elbow and he jerks, before realizing that it is only Ignis reaching out to steady him and to guide him up from his chair.

“And you should go to sleep,” the man tells him softly. Noctis allows him to draw him away from his chair and drops into his bed. Ignis turns to leave but before he can, Noctis tugs at his clothes.

“Could you… not leave? Stay for a while?” he requests, a bit embarrassed. “I don’t want to be alone.” Admitting that feels too much like leaving his back open in combat, like admitting a weakness that will be exploited immediately.

“Alright,” Ignis says after a pause, and settles down on one of the chairs again. “Until you fall asleep.”

Falling asleep doesn’t take long at all. And if Ignis hears the soft sobs that fall from Noctis’ lips as he burrows his face into the pillow, then he doesn’t mention them.

_Noctis doesn’t dream from the past that night. Instead, he finds himself standing on a white plane, the light so bright that it burns his eyes. On the ground around him, he can see blue flowers softly swaying in the wind. He doesn’t recognize them but something tells him that they are important._

_He takes a step forward and squints into the distance, trying desperately to recognize anything around him. Is he alone? If he is alone, why does he feel like he is being watched?_

_Hesitantly, he takes another step forward and finds two crowns floating in the air in front of him. One of them is heavy, gold adorned with bright gemstones and precious beads. He remembers Emperor Iedolas wearing this crown, on the few formal occasions where the mere stifling presence of the Emperor of Niflheim in the room just wasn’t enough. Blood is dropping from some of the jewels, and Noctis wonders whether it belongs to his father or someone else._

_The other crown is simpler but it is illuminated by strings of blue magic weaving around it._

_“Choose,” an ageless voice is telling Noctis, the sound ringing in his ears. “Choose.”_

_Noctis stretches out a hand and –_

And wakes up, sweated beneath the covers and alone. He wonders what woke him when there’s another knock on the door.

 _Please don’t be Glauca_ , Noctis thinks, and breathes a sigh of relief when it’s only one of the glaives sticking his head through the door.

“Are you up, Your Highness?” the glaive questions. “His Majesty wants to see you after breakfast.”

Noctis blinks in confusion. He has expected to be stuck in his room for the coming days, paying the price for daring to attack their king. “He does?” he repeats numbly.

“Knock on the door when you’re ready,” the glaive instructs him, placing a steaming tray on top of Noctis’ table. Noctis gets up from his bed, throws on some clothes – Lucian clothes, again – and hesitantly digs into his breakfast. He is nervous about seeing Regis again. Will he be very mad with him?

 _What a stupid question_ , Noctis thinks scornfully. _You tried to kill him. You can consider yourself lucky that he even wants to see you._ He very carefully doesn’t think about the words Regis had said to him, when he had thought that his end had come.

While he is slowly shuffling scrambled eggs into his mouth, he tries to remember his dream but the content is quickly slipping away from his mind. In the end, he doesn’t find any more reasons to stall and gets up with a sigh to knock on the door.

It opens immediately which is a pleasant change, and he steps through and follows the glaives towards his father’s throne room.

Regis does not look mad when Noctis enters and that realization is accompanied by a rush of dizzying relief. In fact, he looks just as tense and nervous as Noctis feels and that ignites the tiny flame of hope in his heart that they can talk this out. Noctis can apologize for his actions and even if Regis does not forgive him, they can work with that.

He hesitantly steps towards the throne while Regis calmly walks down the stairs in front of it. But as he comes face to face with the king, Noctis’ carefully prepared words break down into nothing.

“I am so sorry. I shouldn’t have… I can’t even…” he chokes up, more than aware that this admission is _not enough_ , and he’ll have to apologize properly, and explain his reasons and –

His father doesn’t say anything but slings his arms around him instead, pulling Noctis into a tight hug. “I already told you that I have forgiven you, haven’t I?” he whispers into Noctis’ hair. At his words, something in Noctis’ breaks and mends, like liquid iron slipping into the breaks and sealing them closed.

He relaxes into the hug and returns it, feeling blessed. Feeling loved. He tries to remember when he last felt that way but abandons the question when he can’t seem to find the answer. 

At some point, Regis loosens his grasp and Noctis steps back, face flushed and a bit embarrassed. His father looks relieved, too.

“I don’t really know what to say,” Noctis admits. “Or what to do.”

The king shakes his head. “You are here. For now, that is more than enough.”

Noctis smiles. Then he suddenly remembers his intentions from the day before. He looks around to see who is there to hear but only Clarus stands close-by, the glaives and the Crownsguard giving them a respectful distance.

“That dagger,” he begins rapidly. “I need to tell you –“

His words are interrupted by a loud knocking on the doors of the throne room. He turns around, with a sudden feeling of dread in his stomach, to see Titus Drautos entering the throne room. Noctis pales, his hands feeling clammy and his body cold. 

“Your Majesty.” The man bows. “I am here for an urgent matter.”

Regis frowns, undoubtedly wondering what the man has to report.

“If it is important, come forth, Titus,” he says.

“No,” Noctis whispers.

His father hears him and gives him a puzzled frown. “Whatever you have to say, Noctis, it can wait for a few more minutes,” he murmurs. Noctis shakes his head, taking a step away from Drautos – Glauca, General Glauca – so that he stands next to his father as the man approaches.

Then the captain is standing in front of them. “I’m afraid this is not only an important matter but it can only be heard by the right ears as well,” he says. “May I request that we speak among ourselves?”

Regis’ brows furrow but he nods. “If that is your wish.”

 _Don’t do it,_ Noctis wants to scream at him. Whatever the man is planning, it can’t be good. He considers yelling the truth right then – this is General Glauca, he is the man who wanted me to kill you. What would happen then? It would turn into a fight and people were going to get hurt. Can he risk that?

Before Noctis can make up his mind, Regis nods and gesticulates at his guards. “Leave us.”

Everybody but Clarus files out of the room obediently. Noctis tries to find the eyes of the glaives, to give them a silent warning, but nobody is looking at him. The door closes with a resounding echo.

Drautos, who has been watching the proceedings with a pleased expression, turns to fix Noctis with a hard stare.

“It’s been a while since we have talked, Your Highness,” he offers civilly. “Have you been considering my words? After all, I gave you some advice I hoped you would act on.”

Noctis glares at him. He is not seriously going to talk about his attempted murder – in front of his father? 

“You gave me more than some advice,” he responds sharply, hoping desperately that his father is going to pick up on the hidden message.

Drautos smiles placidly. “I assumed that you would try to prove yourself worthy of being a prince,” he says, “but after hearing about the incident yesterday, I found myself very disappointed.”

All of a sudden, Noctis is _furious_. How dare the man pretend to be disappointed? How dare he spend his days in the king’s services and lie to his face every day? How dare he call him a friend when he is intending to put a knife into his back the moment Regis turns his back to him? Confronted with the man’s audacity, he suddenly realizes how much the man had manipulated him – had goaded him into attacking his father.

“I am very sorry,” Noctis lies, blank-faced. “I assure you that I tried my best. I still have much to learn if I hope to act like a proper prince.” His only hope now is that he can keep the charade up until he can warn the king about the traitor in their midst. And that means reassuring Glauca that he is still on his side.

For a moment, Noctis can see a spark of anger in Drautos’ eyes. Anger about the deflection or because of his failure to kill the king?

“I’m afraid it won’t be that easy,” Drautos says. “You can’t fix broken trust that easily.”

“Come now,” Regis interjects. “Don’t be too hard on the boy. You know that the Empire has manipulated his views for years. Otherwise he would not have attacked me.”

Noctis clenches his teeth. That is not what they are talking about _at all_. But maybe it is a good thing if Regis stays oblivious for now.

“Maybe if I were given some more time,” Noctis hints cautiously, “I could try again.” He needs to distract Glauca, needs to keep him away from Regis for long enough to warn him about the threat.

The captain stares at him, long and hard, no doubt evaluating his options and Noctis’ offer.

“No,” he says slowly. “I don’t think that is a good idea.” Is he afraid that Noctis will learn to love his father? Is he aware that that is already the case? Is he aware that Noctis failed, not because the glaives stopped him, but because he realized the truth?

Noctis grows desperate. “Please,” he begs, uncaring that he’s about to blow their cover. “Give me one more chance.”

“No, Highness,” Drautos answers, slowly, dangerously. “I am going to do it myself and take you back to Niflheim.”

Several things happen at once.

His father repeats, in a voice that is both lost and confused: “Niflheim?”

Clarus runs forward, a shield and a blade materializing in a shower of blue crystals in his hands, but he’s too far away, and he’s too late.

And Captain Drautos’ figure _ripples_ as he steps forward and pushes a long blade into Regis’ chest, the damning helmet of General Glauca forming above his face.

“ _No!_ ” Noctis screams and pushes Regis behind him. His father follows the motion way too easily, stumbling backwards and hitting the ground. Noctis is unarmed. Noctis is unarmed, in front of the enemy, _and his father lies dying_.

It’s like his worst nightmare repeating, a blade flashing out of nowhere and hitting his father in his chest, and Noctis _unable to do anything_. The faces of Regis and Iedolas waver in front of his face, merging, and he sways on his feet, mind assaulted by too many emotions at once to react. Maybe he’s going into shock, maybe his panic manages to put him out of action.

It’s Clarus who brings him back. The man is pushing him behind him – _protecting him,_ Noctis realizes – and throws himself against Glauca. Glauca’s black and red magitek armor has materialized fully now and he’s laughing, swinging the blade with _his father’s blood on it_.

Noctis stumbles back, opening his mouth to scream. “ _Guards,_ ” he screams, barely able to recognize his own voice. “ _Guards!”_

The door to the throne room is thrown open with a bang, and glaives and Crownsguard alike flock into the room, drawn by his frantic screams.

“Stand and fight by my side if you’re a prince of Niflheim,” Glauca is shouting at him.

Noctis yells and raises his hands and a blast of fire flows from his hands, hitting Glauca in the chest and pushing him back. “ _Go to hell_!” he snarls at him, yearning to throw himself against the man. But he still doesn’t have a weapon and he can’t hope for another lucky hit with his elemancy.

So instead, he drops to his feet where his father lies, while the glaives and the Crownsguard soldiers throw themselves into the fight alongside Clarus. Noctis doesn’t know whether they can win against the General, a man who had led entire battalions into war and had always emerged victoriously, covered in the blood of his enemies.

“Father,” he says, tears suddenly dropping from his eyes, as he stares down at the terrible wound in the middle of his father’s chest - and the blood that slowly spreads from it, soaking his father’s royal garments.

A hand seeks his and squeezes weakly. “That’s,” Regis chuckles sadly, “the first time you actually called me that.”

Suddenly, his fury is back. “And it better not be the last time,” he snaps at him angrily. “You better focus on staying alive.”

As he speaks, he presses his hands on top of the wound. If he can keep his father from bleeding out, maybe they can hold out until a medic arrives. He has seen the incredible effects of a potion with his own eyes – if it can seal up a wound in a matter of seconds, maybe it can save his father’s life.

His father chuckles again, but this time it sounds alarmingly wet.

“No!” Noctis warns him. “I only just found you again. I am _not losing you_.” An absent part of his mind reminds him that he should keep an eye out for Glauca – the man knows that his loyalties have changed, now, and could very well decide to attack him – or both of them. Instead, he keeps his hands on his father’s chest, keeping pressure on it. If Glauca can take out the entire Crownsguard and the glaives, he won’t stand a chance on his own. He’ll have to trust them. He has no other choice but to trust them.

“I couldn’t be more happy,” his father begins to say, and Noctis finally casts a frantic look around. Why isn’t the medic here yet? Has nobody alerted them?

The hand that is touching his own goes limp.

Noctis freezes and looks down onto King Regis, his face more peaceful in death than he had ever seen it in life.

Something in Noctis breaks, with a sharp crack, as silent as the moment when lightning hits the earth and as loud as a hurricane breaking loose.

“No,” he whispers, leaning forward to grasp his father’s cheeks with both hands, swiping bloody traces across his skin. His father’s face follows his motions gently, offering no resistance.

“No!” he repeats, louder, and louder.

He doubles over, kneeling over his dead king – his dead father – and feels his world shatter to pieces. And just like last time, there is nothing he can do. Just like last time, all he can do is _watch_ , and _beg_ , and _wail to the gods._

Something brushes his sides as he bends and catches his attention. Blindly, his vision fogged over with tears, Noctis fumbles for what’s hidden beneath his vest.

And pulls forth the Phoenix Down his father has given him.

His knees go weak and hadn’t he already been kneeling, Noctis would have collapsed on the spot. His mind clears up in a matter of seconds, a plan forming rapidly. Here is his chance. Here is the chance to make everything better – to stop this.

He clutches the feather in his hands and feels for the magic inside of him. The feather is empty of magic – an empty vessel that Noctis needs to fill. He _reaches down_ into the source of his magic, deeper than he has ever grasped before, grips it with mental fingers and _pulls._

It feels like pulling a coeurl out of a swamp, with the coeurl trying to run into the other direction.

Noctis prevails. He tears at his magic, coaxes it and orders it to follow his commands. And it does. Energy floods through his hands, into the vessel of the feather, and the feather takes it all, absorbing Noctis’ energy as its own.

He becomes aware of the fact that he is shaking but he can’t concentrate on his surroundings any longer, his mind too deeply entrenched in the depths of his magic.

A hand presses down on his shoulder, and disappears again. A voice speaks to him. Noctis doesn’t pay it any attention.

Everything he has he offers to the feather, begging it to take his energy. What he lacks in control, he makes up for in sheer determination. And slowly, the feather in his hands begins to glow.

“That’s enough,” a voice is suddenly saying, loudly in his ears. “That’s enough.”

Noctis resurfaces from his trance with a gasp and blinks, the noises and the lights too loud, too aggravating, for his senses.

A man’s pale face is staring at him, blood streaked across it. His dizzy mind requires several moments to recognize him as Clarus.

Without a word, Noctis takes the Phoenix Down, and pushes it onto his father’s chest.

For a few seconds, nothing happens and Noctis already fears that it’s too late – he has taken too long, the wound was too severe, the feather was not enough –

And then golden light breaks out all over his father’s figure and he gasps, the sound the most precious thing Noctis has ever heard, and rolls over to cough into the floor.

Noctis falls back, his hands hitting the ground just in time to stop him from collapsing entirely. His arms are shaking badly, and he becomes aware of an emptiness in his stomach, like a hole in his chest that is screaming at him.

“I’ve got you,” Clarus says, pushing a hand against his back to stabilize him. “It’s alright. You’re going into stasis.” He must be making a really sorry sight if the man that he could have sworn hated him was making such an effort to help him. Absently, Noctis wonders what stasis is supposed to be. 

“It’s over,” he murmurs into Noctis’ ear and hold out an arm, and Noctis accepts the comfort offered and burrows his face into the shield’s shoulder. “It’s over.”

In front of them, he can hear Regis coughing, and cursing, and asking questions, and even further back, he could have seen the body of General Glauca, lying broken on the ground.

Noctis does not look up.

It takes a long time for them to start moving again.

Noctis feels tired, like a heavy weight is boring his body down towards the cold stone tiles. But it is a good kind of tiredness, not weariness, the kind he would have expected after a long exhausting day at court, but a content tiredness, interwoven with numbing relief.

The world refuses to hold its breath for him any longer as people start to bustle through the throne room. He pays them little mind, satisfied with leaning back and quietly watching his father still crouching on the floor – alive, _alive_ , his mind sings – and Clarus, hovering beside him, and only taking his eyes off him for short exchanges of words with the Crownsguard and Cor.

Noctis isn’t sure when the Marshal has shown up, whether he took part in the fight that has ravaged in the room or whether he has been notified in its aftermath. But he is glad that the man is here, glad about the controlled calm in the man’s eyes and stride, as he steadily directs the efforts to secure the throne room, to assess the casualties the fight has cost – Noctis refuses to look at the dead bodies on the floor too closely – and to protect the king.

At some point, the Marshal steps towards the large body of Glauca, his magitek armor torn from him in several places. Noctis cannot see his face from where he sits but he thinks that he should offer the man this privacy. There is no doubt that the Marshal and the Captain of the Kingsglaive were acquaintances, maybe even friends. He stays like that for a while, his head bowed, and when he glances back up and at the puddle of drying blood beneath the king, he looks haunted.

This is when he notices that he is being watched. But when his eyes lock with Noctis’, he can spot no hostility in them. Curiosity and a healthy portion of weariness, maybe. Noctis finds it hard to read the man. But it clear he demands answers – that he needs answers. Noctis has no intention to refuse him when the time has come for their conversation.

Glancing away, he spots a group of medics marching through the doors, some heading towards them, others moving towards wounded glaives and Crownsguard soldiers on the floor.

“Look sharp, Reggie, the interrogation team arrives,” he hears Clarus whisper to Regis, eliciting a hoarse laugh from the king.

“Can’t you protect me from them?” Regis whispers back.

Clarus raises his shoulders, his lips twitching. “I am afraid I am no match against their superior strength.”

“Your Majesty.” A medic crouches down in front of the king after sketching out a short bow. “We have been informed that there has been the use of a Phoenix Down on you. Do you feel any lingering effects? Are there injuries that have not been fully healed or have been inflicted afterwards?”

Her words are curt and clinical but Noctis notices that she is looking pale, and her eyes are wandering from the king’s face to the spot of dried blood and torn fabric where the blade had gone in. He refuses to look too closely, uncomfortable with the reminder, of pressing his fingers against the bleeding wound and begging the gods not to take him.

“Still feeling a bit weak,” Regis rasps, then has to clear his throat. “But that is not unexpected. And no remaining injuries as far as I can tell.”

The way he is keeping his sentences short makes Noctis suspect that he is more exhausted than he admits, and worry pools in his stomach.

“Maybe an elixir wouldn’t be amiss,” he suggests hesitantly. “Your magic reserves are probably low. And waiting for them to replenish themselves would be exhausting and time-consuming, am I right? Especially while you are still recovering.”

The medic frowns at him. “Normally I’d agree,” she answers. “But do forgive me, we are not familiar with your magic, Your Highness. We don’t know whether it might interfere with the lingering traces of the Phoenix Down.”

 _Ridiculous,_ Noctis thinks. _My magic is of the same kind as my father’s._

“Then I’ll make an elixir myself,” he says out loud, stubbornly.

Clarus and Regis both look at him sharply. “I don’t think so,” Clarus declares with certainty. “You are looking quite pale and shaky yourself.”

Before Noctis can protest, a second medic is leaning over and peering into his eyes.

“Typical symptoms of magical exhaustion,” he judges after a few moments of inspecting Noctis from head to toe.

“Plenty of rest for both of them and proper nourishment,” the first medic declares. Noctis tries his best not to dislike her. “And elixirs in hand in case they are not feeling better by early evening.”

He grumbles something and fight the urge to curl up. Now that he has rested for a while, the cold of the floor is seeping into his bones and the hard edges are digging into his skin.

“She is right,” Clarus states while the medic steps back to a respectable distance. “We should all take a moment to recover.” He is starting to hoist hands beneath Regis’ shoulders as he speaks and gently pulls the man from the ground. It takes a few moments but at the end of it, they are both standing, Regis’ arms slung around Clarus’ shoulder for stabilization. Regis is still looking sickeningly pale and Noctis yearns to offer some of the energy flooding slowly back into his own body. He can heal. He can help. He thinks he has proven that now.

“Up you go, Your Highness,” Clarus says, and Noctis smiles up at him.

“You can call me Noct,” he starts to say as he pulls his feet beneath him and attempts to stand. The dizziness that floods his mind and vision is jarring in its strength, and he sways and collapses back to the ground.

“Slowly, slowly,” Clarus warns.

“Noctis!” Regis’ voice sounds tense, worried. There is a yelp from the shield, and suddenly there are familiar hands helping Noctis up. He looks up at his father when the ground beneath his feet has stopped moving, and the dizziness he feels is of another nature.

“I was scared,” he whispers, barely aware of what he is admitting. “I thought I’d lost you.”

“It’s alright.” Warm hands come up to cradle Noctis’ face and he leans into the support, clutching at his father’s bloodied garb. Regis’ breath ghosts over his skin, and he presses closer, uncaring of the blood or of who sees. The solid feeling beneath his fingers and the warmth are shaking something loose in Noctis and he closes his eyes to stop the tears from returning. He has cried enough today.

A hand touches his hair gently, and they stay like that for a long moment, Noctis focusing on breathing, and not crying, and not shaking in his father’s grasp. Alive. 

It takes no effort at all to ignore the rest of the room, but at some point Regis moves and Noctis becomes aware that he should allow him to sit down and rest. Astrals, the man has _died_. If Noctis feels dead on his feet, he cannot imagine what his father feels like right now.

“You should rest,” he manages to choke out and extracts himself from his father’s arms carefully. Clarus is there to support him, and Noctis steps back. He suddenly notices that Cor has joined their round and is eyeing both him and Regis closely.

“I have for now assumed control over the Kingsglaive and shall take care of the rest,” Cor informs them. “You two should retreat and rest.”

Regis holds the Marshal’s gaze steadily. “Thank you, Cor. I’ll leave it in your hands for now. But I will -”

“Rest,” Clarus interrupts. “We can talk about it all once you are feeling better. And you are no longer covered in blood.”

The king sighs.

“Fine.”

They walk away from the throne room, Noctis and his father and Clarus, and a group of Crownsguard silently falls away from the others to follow them.

It’s a slow walk because both Noctis and Regis are visibly struggling with the effort but they are managing. They arrive at Noctis’ room first because Regis insists on accompanying him. As if he was the one the assassination attempt had been aimed at. But Noctis is too tired, and too touched by the gesture, to argue.

“Sleep, my son,” Regis says, laying a heavy hand on Noctis’ shoulder. “We will speak at length afterwards. But for now you shall rest.”

Noctis nods, not feeling like he can any longer form words. His eyes drooping, he walks through the door. It closes softly behind him but there is no sound of a lock.

He smiles and wanders towards the bed, before suddenly realizing that he is still covered in his father’s blood. So instead, his mind numb, he staggers into the bathroom and beneath the shower. He turns it on and, waiting for the water to run warm, drops the clothes to the floor. When he steps underneath the water, red starts to pool in the water and he scrubs at his fingers, over his hands, over his face, while the colour quickly bleeds away.

It’s possible that he misses a few spots but his body is still feeling shaky, so Noctis dries off fast and falls into the bed instead.

When he wakes up, he does not remember the voices that have spoken in his dreams. 

_You have chosen well, young prince_.

The glaives lead him towards his father’s office and their company feels different, this time. Like they are there to _protect_ him, rather than guard him. Do they know about what happened in the throne room?

Noctis sneaks a glance at the glaive to his right and the man, with a crow's foot on his right cheek, winks back at him.

Then they walk through the door – a new shiny door with the sigil of Lucis edged into the wood – and into the room beyond. Noctis is the last one to arrive, it appears, as his father, Cor and Clarus are seated in a ring somewhere between his father’s desk and the window. One heavy arm chair is empty and Noctis drops into it without further ado.

While Clarus offers Noctis a cup of tea which he gratefully accepts, Regis orders the glaives to leave the room. Noctis tries not to feel nervous about that and instead eyes Regis inconspicuously. His father is looking much better than when he last saw him, clothed in new comfortable black garbs and all traces of blood gone, but he’s still pale.

Maybe they should have waited a little longer, Noctis thinks, but even as he does he realizes that time is short and precious. Glauca may be dead but the situation with Niflheim is still tense. And yes, Noctis feels worried about that, but also his heart feels lighter than it did in days.

“So I suppose you have a lot of questions for me,” he offers, feeling daring.

They waste no time to go easy on him.

“You knew who Drautos was when you first met him,” Cor says.

There is no judgement in his voice but Noctis’ fingers clench around his tea cup. Of course they’d blame him for that. He had identified the enemy and snake hiding in their home and he hadn’t bothered to point at it, knowing that the man intended to bring forth the king’s death.

“I did,” Noctis agrees. “I recognized him as General Glauca. I had seen him before at the Emperor’s court, both with and without his armor.” He hesitates. “I did _not_ know he was the spy the Emperor had placed in your court before I saw him though.”

He can feel his father’s gaze burning on him and he raises his head to look at him.

“That is why you asked me for his name,” Regis says and Noctis nods.

“Yes. Honestly, I was not expecting to see him here.” Noctis coughs a little, unsure where to look. He couldn’t stand it if they were looking at him with accusation.

“So tell me what happened after you met him,” Cor continues his line of questioning, not ungently.

He sips at his tea, gathering his thoughts and leaning back. Best to say it as straightforward as possible. “He came into my room the next morning,” he admits, feeling a shiver sneak up his back at the memory. “And he offered to take me home.”

Regis inhales sharply.

“And you agreed?”

“Yes.”

For a moment, they are all silent. Progressing their friend’s – and his, no doubt – treason.

Cor looks at him and there is something inscrutable in his eyes. “Was that before or after he gave you that dagger?”

Noctis feels himself go pale and he tightens his fingers around his tea. The Marshal is perceptive, he knew that before, but he is still both impressed and frightened by how fast he has made the connection.

“Cor!” someone is admonishing silently in the background. “This is not an interrogation. Give him some time.”

“It’s… it’s fine,” Noctis stutters, and curses himself for it. He can hold himself together better than this. With a deep breath, he raises his chin and says, before he loses the courage to do so: “He told me that he would find a way to get me out of the Citadel and back to Niflheim if I managed to kill the king before we left. And then he gave me the dagger.”

Again, there is silence, and then Clarus is cursing loudly. Noctis chances a glance up and sees that his father is holding the edges of his chair so tightly that his knuckles have gone white. He doesn’t dare look at his face, for fear of the rage that is certainly displayed on it.

He hunches his shoulders and wishes, for the first time, that he was back in his room. He doesn’t want to face them after this confession, doesn’t want them reminded of the time… of the time he tried to kill his own father.

Suddenly he realizes that someone is saying his name. Several people have said something but he hasn’t listened. “Noctis?”

“I’m sorry!” he stands up abruptly, his heart thrumming so loudly in his chest that the others must surely hear it. “I should not have listened to him. He told me that I had to… that I had to prove myself worthy in front of the royal houses of Niflheim. That I had to stake my claim. That they’d be reaching for the throne themselves if I didn’t present myself as the Heir that he… that Iedolas wanted! It was stupid. His arguments were bad but at the time, I… I didn’t know better. I wanted to go home. I wanted to _get out_.”

Damn, there are tears burning in his eyes again. When will he ever stop crying? He looks at his father, his vision of his face blurred, but Regis deserves to have him look into his eyes while he tries to apologize for something he can’t possibly apologize for. At least this way he can’t see the disgust in Regis’ eyes.

“I should have never attacked you,” he repeats, his voice wavering but not breaking yet. “He wanted to use me to kill you, _and I should have seen it_ , and when it didn’t work, he tried to kill you himself. I’m _so s-_ “

Suddenly, there are hands pressing down on his shoulders and his father’s face swims into focus in front of him.

Oh, he looks _mad_.

“If you try to apologize one more time,” Regis tells him sharply, “I will have to go and kill Drautos myself once more.”

Noctis can’t help it. He chuckles and cries at the same time. “Bit too late for a Phoenix Down, don’t you think?” he mumbles.

“Good for him,” the man mutters, and Noctis blinks at him in surprise. Yes, Regis still looks angry. But it seems – does it, really? - like he is not angry with _him_ , even as he raises his hands to swipe the tears from Noctis’ eyes.

Noctis closes his eyes and feels a little ashamed for his outburst, but mostly relieved that he has said his apology and that his father is not looking at him with resentment. Forgiveness. What a weird thing. Noctis isn’t sure he’ll ever feel worthy of it.

Gently, he takes a step back, swipes his arm over his eyes once more and sits back down. He thinks about the assassination attempt again, and what followed it.

“I wanted to tell you who gave me that dagger in the next morning,” he says. He can only hope that they’ll believe it, that his intentions _had_ changed after that day. “I wanted to warn you.”

“I remember,” Regis says, and a frown sneaks onto his face. “You were trying to tell me, right when –“

“When Drautos entered the throne room.”

“Think further,” Clarus says. “Even during the conversation with him that followed – you were trying to warn us!”

Noctis nods, relieved beyond measure that Clarus remembers. “I did. But you didn’t notice. And I’m really…”

“If you’ll remember what I said about apologies,” Regis warns him.

Noctis clamps his mouth shut, feeling flushed.

There’s silence for a while before Cor speaks up. “Since Drautos was a traitor, we will have to assume that there are possibly more traitors in the Kingsglaive. Especially among those he recruited himself.”

Clarus turns to Noctis. “Did you recognize anyone else from Niflheim, while you were here? Or do you know about any more spies?”

Noctis shakes his head. “It’s possible there are more. But I don’t know about it.” He bites off the ‘I’m sorry’ before it can leave his lips. It doesn’t seem like they would appreciate it.

“In that case,” Cor says, “I suggest a closer interrogation of the entire Kingsglaive. It’ll be difficult but we need to at least try to single out those possibly loyal to Niflheim – or to Drautos.”

“We need their full strength at the moment,” Clarus interjects. “We can’t allow infighting with Niflheim potentially attacking us at any point.”

Noctis hesitates. “I…” All gazes turn to him immediately. “I don’t think it will.”

Regis’ voice is soft as he addresses him. “What do you mean by that?”

“Just,” Noctis shrugs, “General Glauca was the most important leader after the Emperor. Which leaves Ravus Fleuret in the position of power. If anyone makes the decision to attack, it’ll be him. The other royals will bow to him.”

Noctis dares a small smile. “And he… is my friend.” He raises his chin. “He will do as I say.”

“Ravus supports your claim to the throne,” Regis thinks loudly.

“Yes.”

“But what do you - “

“Let me speak to him,” Noctis implores. “Let me speak to him personally. I know that he wasn’t convinced by our conversation before, he’s probably thinking I am being threatened and kept captive by you right now. But if I tell him the truth…”

“The entire truth? Even your parentage?”

Noctis hesitates. Does he trust Ravus that much? Does he trust him with the most lethal secret Noctis holds? He thinks of a burning country, and a young boy who had tried to protect it desperately enough that he bowed to the man who had ordered its burning.

“Yes,” he says simply. "I trust him."

Clarus starts to say something but Noctis keeps talking. “I know it’s risky. But having him on our side could make the difference.”

Everyone takes a moment to sit back and think about his words, while Noctis tries to put together a plan in his mind. It proves impossible.

“But what then?” he asks. “I can’t just stay here forever and trust that Ravus will protect my claim. What if the other Lords will try something? And they’ll demand… they’ll demand me to, well, rule.” He can’t help that his voice is getting desperate towards the end. The fear he has suppressed ruthlessly so far is back, boiling in his stomach.

It’s his father who speaks next and his words chill Noctis to the bone. “You want to leave.”

Noctis licks his lips, nervously, and lets his gaze wander between the other three quickly. Cor is watching him like a hawk. Clarus avoids his gaze, and his father is looking pained.

He desperately fumbles for an answer. Does he want to leave? Two days before, he would have said yes immediately, he would not have hesitated. But now? How can he possibly leave his father after finding him?

“I’m still…” He swallows, struggling to get the words out. “I’m still trying to figure this all out. I don’t think that I can stay here as a prince. As your prince,” he specifies. “ _Someone_ needs to keep Niflheim under control. And the only one who can control it – who has the right to control it – would be me.”

“Noctis,” his father starts to say.

“You know it’s true,” Noctis says. “Even if I wanted to stay, I _can’t_.” And why does this realization _hurt_ so much? Days ago he wanted these people dead – and now he can barely stand the thought of leaving them. He’ll break his father’s heart. He knows that much. 

“Unless of course,” he laughs suddenly, not feeling any mirth, “you won’t let me go.”

Now the pain lies open and plain upon his father’s face. Noctis wants to turn away from such an expression of grief but he forces himself to remain steadfast.

“My son,” Regis breathes. “You know that I would fight armies for you. And I’ll admit it, I dread letting you go. But do not believe I would ever force you to stay where you do not want to be.”

Noctis smiles, a sad desperate smile that collapses all too fast. “I know. But you are wrong about one thing: I do not want to leave. Not anymore.”

The air is stifled, and the task before them looms too heavy to face. How can anyone walk tall when all forces are tearing you into different directions at once?

“Wait,” Cor suddenly says. “Repeat what you said before.”

Noctis blinks at him, a little lost. “I do not want to leave?”

“No, not that. What you said before, about…” Cor furrows his brows. “About how you cannot stay here as a prince. As our prince.”

Noctis stares at him, as do the others. “Yes?”

Cor’s eyes are alight with an inner fire.

“But what if you _can_?” 

**Epilogue – Some time later**

The crowd’s cheers are overwhelming. The central place in front of the Citadel is filled with hundreds, maybe thousands of people, screaming, cheering, waving and laughing wildly.

The streets leading towards it are crowded as well, and passengers who hoped to navigate the streets are hopelessly stuck inside of them.

This is not a problem for Jared Hester and his grandson Talcott who have waited on the stairs to the Citadel since morning, all in the hopes of getting to stand with a good point of view towards the stage.

On the stage, Prince Noctis, soon-to-be Emperor Noctis, is standing, surrounded by his usual entourage. Talcott is excited and keeps pestering Jared with questions.

“Who are these people right behind Noctis?” he asks. “Isn’t the one on the right _Gladio_?”

Jared squints against the sun. “Yes, that’s him. The one on his left is Ignis Scientia, the prince’s advisor. I am not sure who the blonde man is. Wasn’t he in the news a few weeks ago?”

Talcott eyes the man skeptically. “I’m not sure. You told me to stop watching so much television.”

Laughing, Jared pets his hair. “That’s right, little one.”

“So why are they crowning him in Lucis if he’s the Emperor of Niflheim?” Talcott questions him, a bit confused.

Jared scowls at him. “He’s not just the Emperor of Niflheim,” he admonishes the boy. “Noctis will be the Emperor of the United Kingdoms of Lucis and Niflheim, since King Regis is stepping back as king.”

“Why would he do that?” Talcott frowns back up at him and Jared laughs at the serious expression on his face.

“Mostly for the peace that this will grant Lucis,” he answers, lowering his voice so that none of the spectators around him can hear them. “Handing over control to Niflheim will end the war once and for all.” He smirks. “But King Regis is a sly fox. He will keep regency of Lucis for as long as he wishes to. That’s part of the deal he made with the Emperor’s son.”

Talcott stares up at King Regis with respect. The man is standing a bit to the side, next to his shield, the marshal, the Oracle and Ravus Nox Fleuret, the High Commander of the Imperial Forces, and keeps his gaze firmly on Noctis.

“He looks happy,” he observes thoughtfully.

“Indeed,” Jared agrees. “They all do. After all, it’s been a long time since there has been peace.”

“So what’s going to happen next?” Talcott’s repertoire of questions seems never-ending.

“After the coronation?” Jared asks. “Well, I suppose everyone will have to work hard in order to transfer the new government centrum from Niflheim to Insomnia. And once that is done, there is still Noctis’ engagement with the Oracle.”

Talcott is quiet for a few moments and Jared is beginning to hope for a few minutes without more questions.

“So who’s gonna keep up the wall if King Regis is retiring? His own son is dead, isn’t he?”

Jared stiffens and throws a glance towards their old king and the young Heir to the Empire. The Ring of the Lucii is shining brightly on the younger man’s finger, his face bright as he waves his hand towards the crowd. Jared narrows his eyes.

“I suppose he is,” he lies, because there are too many ears in the crowd that could hear.

“And in any case, there has been talk whether the Wall will even be needed in the future. It was created because of the war against Niflheim in the first place. Now that the war is over, it seems a little redundant. And I have heard that they are working on a solution to keep the daemons out for good.”

The boy furrows his brows. “Is it that even possible?”

The crowd surges forward as Noctis steps towards the King of Lucis and sinks to his knees before the crown held in his hands. The noise is _deafening._

“I don’t know,” Talcott repeats. The boy can probably no longer hear him. “But with the combined power of both Niflheim and Lucis – who says that he can’t?”

The crown sinks down onto Noctis’ head and the crowd goes wild, picked up in a frenzy over their new Emperor.

Noctis smiles.

And Jared suddenly believes that it is true, what the people are whispering in the streets – this King, this Emperor can only have been blessed by the gods themselves. 

THE END


End file.
